Chapter 5
“The path to paradise begins in hell.”
—Dante Alighieri
The logical side of me tells me I should be afraid, hesitant, even guilty, but the finality of my decision fills me with the sort of peace I haven’t experienced in years.
Soon, this reality will cease to exist for me. My husband will never be able to lay his hands on me again, and I will never have to suffer under the control of someone else.
If I’m being realistic, I’ve had one foot in the grave since I married Joel. Between his abuse and my sinking deeper into depression with every passing week, dying will be a relief, a reprieve from this inescapable cycle.
No more waiting hand and foot on a man who believes that my obedience is love. No more walking on eggshells with a perpetually wired nervous system. No more wasting away between these grey and beige walls where every day is the same.
I may never find out whether my mystery man is real or not, but at least the curiosity will stop plaguing me soon.
It’s Monday morning, and I’m humming as I pour a cup of coffee and sit down at the table across from Joel.
“You’re awfully cheery today,” Joel says, looking up from his phone with a raised eyebrow.
I shrug. “I just needed a good night of sleep, I think. My headache finally went away.” It’s a lie, and suspicion is written all over his face, but he couldn’t possibly guess at the real cause of my sudden shift in mood, so he accepts the obvious lie.
I’m never in this good of a mood.
The irony is not lost upon me.
“If you say so,” Joel says after studying my expression with skepticism. “What’s for dinner tonight?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Technically, it’s not a lie.
He stands from the table and tops off his travel mug with coffee before saying, “Well, make sure that chicken in the fridge gets used up before it goes bad.” And with that, he’s out the door.
I snort a bitter laugh in the silence that follows, wondering if he’ll remember that the last words he ever said to his wife were about raw chicken.
It only takes a moment for the silence to swallow me whole.
Do I do it now? Do I wait a couple hours and enjoy what’s left of my day—of my life?
I didn’t think about this part.
Now, I decide. I need to do it now.
It’s not like there are any final preparations I need to make, and I wouldn’t be able to focus on enjoying anything in my final few hours.
It’s time.
No more waiting. No more being the pliant, acquiescent woman. For the first time in my life, I'm going to do something for myself. Ironic that the one thing I'll finally be doing for myself is ending my own life.
I walk to the bathroom, trailing my fingers along the wall and memorizing the textures I’ll never feel again.
The carpet is plush beneath my bare feet as I cross our bedroom to make my way into the master bathroom.
I don’t bother to close the door as I cross over the threshold onto the tile of the bathroom.
The entire room gleams under the harsh light in shades of stark white and slate gray, the faint scent of bleach still lingering from when I cleaned the tub a few days ago.
When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I pause. My skin is pale, my long hair a tangled mess, and the dark circles beneath my eyes so purple they resemble bruises.
It’ll all be over soon, I tell myself. My last look at my reflection should probably feel more significant, but all I feel is that same numbness overshadowed by the relief that this is the end.
The hinges of the medicine cabinet squeak as I open it, and my eyes zero in on the razorblades on the top shelf.
Despite my certainty in what I’m about to do, my pulse still surges as I set the box on the counter and pull out the thin metal blade. It feels lighter than it should.
I sink onto my knees beside the bathtub, turn the handle all the way to the left, and watch the hot water fill the tub, steam rising from the surface and warming my face.
The warmth seeps into my skin, and I close my eyes.
For a brief moment, the voice in my mind whispers, you don’t have to do this.
Yes, I do.
When I turn the water off, the silence is deafening, broken only by the slowing drip-drip-drip from the faucet like a ticking clock. I only filled the tub a few inches deep, but it’s enough.
With the blade pinched between my fingers, I dip my shaking hands beneath the scalding water. I’m not sure why. Maybe I just want to feel one last thing before I die.
My wrists look so delicate beneath the water's surface, pale blue veins visible through delicate, translucent skin. When I pull them out, my skin is pink, and droplets glide along the edge of the razor blade before dripping back into the water.
Well, here goes nothing.
I pinch the blade tightly, take a deep breath, and slice it down my forearm.
The cut stings less than I expected—at least at first. A thin red line appears, barely visible at first, then blooming into something more severe.
The water before me turns pink, then deepens in color with every drop of blood as I make the second cut deeper, more determined this time.
Then a third before switching which hand I hold the razor in and repeating the process on the other side.
The sharp, stinging pain shoots up my arm, and I suck in a sharp breath before biting down hard on my lip.
Fuck, that hurts.
Tears slip down my cheeks as the reality of the situation sets in, but I don’t bother wiping them away. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore.
The blade slips from my fingers and falls into the murky water, and I watch, strangely detached, as my blood disperses through the bathwater like ink through paper.
My thoughts drift to Joel, and I catch myself thinking, He's going to be pissed if my blood stains the tub.
A laugh bubbles up in my chest. How completely fucked up that even now, bleeding out in our bathtub, I'm worried about inconveniencing him. As if my death is just another failure to uphold my wifely duties.
My heart pounds, and I shut my eyes. Everything feels too bright, too cold, too much.
I lean against the wall, keeping my arms hanging over the tub while blood drips from my fingertips, and am overcome by a sudden sense of shame.
What have I done?
I stare out the bathroom door into the bedroom, my consciousness slipping and thoughts blurring at the edges.
In the moments where I wait for my mind to slip away, sudden sobs wrack my body.
How did I get here? There are so many things I could have done differently in life, so many choices I could have made that would’ve led me down a better path.
Why didn’t I follow any of my dreams? Why didn’t I leave Joel when the first red flag popped up?
How did I manage to become so trapped that death was my only option?
My life could have been so beautiful, if only I’d done things differently.
Movement flashes at the edge of my vision.
Then, he’s there, appearing as suddenly as he always does.
He stands in the corner of my bedroom, enveloped by the shadows, staring hard. For the first time, I see him clearly. Tall and dark-haired, dressed in all black, with sharp features and dark eyes that burn with intensity.
Maybe he is the grim reaper, after all.
“God, I've really lost my mind,” I whisper, the words heavy on my tongue.
He stands motionless, and I close my eyes and wait for him to come to me, to carry me away from this life to wherever I’m destined to go next.
The sound of the front door slamming cuts through my fading consciousness like a thunderclap. Heavy, familiar footsteps echo down the hallway.
“Hey, I forgot my—”
Joel's sentence cuts off when he reaches the doorway and finds me bleeding out on the bathroom floor. His shouting shatters whatever resigned peace I'd found, dragging me back toward a reality I was escaping.
“What the fuck have you done?! Brielle?!”
He’s not gentle as he wraps towels around my forearms and applies pressure.
Red rivulets stream down my arms, dripping from my fingertips onto the tile floor.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder offhandedly how difficult it’ll be to get blood out of the grout, which would make me laugh if my energy wasn’t fading by the second.
Joel is shouting into his phone, but I pay no attention to the words he says, though my heart lurches with fear at the sheer volume and brusqueness of his voice.
I try to look past him, searching for the man I’d seen in the corner of my bedroom only moments ago, but the edges of my vision are contracting, darkness creeping in like a vignette.
Joel's voice grows distant in my ears, as if I’m underwater.
His mouth moves, forming words I can hear no longer make sense of.
The last thing I see before consciousness slips away is not my husband's face, but a glimpse of the figure standing just behind him, watching with eyes that are heavy with concern—or maybe regret.
If he was meant to take me away, Joel probably just ruined his plan.
Our eyes stay locked on each other for seconds that feel like hours, and he stares at me as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle. He turns away, seeming to disappear in a fraction of a second.
He’s gone without a trace, and my vision goes dark.