Chapter 6
“Life begins on the other side of despair.”
—Jean-Paul Sartre
The antiseptic smell reaches me before consciousness fully does. My eyelids are heavy, but I force them open to a blurred white ceiling. The steady beep of machines confirms what I already know: I've failed, even at this.
I couldn’t even kill myself without fucking it up.
The hospital room swims into focus.
Even as a tiny sense of relief blooms in my chest, the weight of reality comes crashing back down. I’m still here, but worse off than I was before.
I lift my hand to wipe the crust from my eyes, and an ache radiates from my hand and arm. Medical tape holds an IV in place at the top of my hand, the plastic tube snaking down the side of the bed and up to the bag of fluid hanging above me, and my forearms are bandaged in thick, white gauze.
A nurse notices I'm awake a few minutes later and approaches with a polite smile. “There you are. How are you feeling?”
The question is so absurd I almost laugh. How am I feeling? Betrayed by my own body's will to survive. Furious at whatever cosmic joke kept me tethered to this life. Terrified of what comes next.
“Fine,” I whisper.
She nods as if this makes perfect sense, checks my vitals, and tells me the doctor will be in shortly. As she leaves, I notice Joel sitting in the corner chair, his posture rigid, eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
I jump. I hadn’t even noticed him there.
He stands when she's gone and approaches the bed. I hold my breath.
“Hey, baby,” he says. The gentleness in his voice startles me even more than his anger would until I realize how frequently his eyes dart toward the door then back to me. He knows someone might overhear. He takes my hand, brushing his thumb over the edge of the bandage. “You scared me.”
The tenderness in his touch makes my stomach churn. I know this performance. I’ve seen it countless times when we're in public, at parties, or around his family. The doting husband, so concerned for his fragile wife.
He’s still wearing his uniform, only adding to his credibility as a protector rather than someone to fear.
Thankfully, a doctor enters before I can respond, clipboard in hand, expression solemn.
He speaks in a serious tone, though most of it is directed at Joel.
I'm barely listening, though I catch the important words.
Blood loss. Stable. Psychiatric evaluation.
Joel's hand tightens around mine, but I know it’s a warning, not a comfort.
“She's been under a lot of stress lately,” Joel says, his voice cracking just enough to seem authentic. “We've been trying to start a family, and it's been… difficult.”
The lie comes out so smoothly that I almost believe it myself. I watch as he transforms from the man I know into a heartbroken husband devastated by his wife's suffering.
It makes me want to vomit.
“I understand the protocols here, what with my profession and all, but I think what she needs most is to be home with me where I can watch her 24/7. I've already arranged time off work.”
The doctor hesitates, glancing between us. “We’ll still need to perform a psychiatric evaluation, so as long as the team agrees that she doesn’t pose a threat to herself or others, she’ll be free to go.”
Joel's fingers dig into my palm as another warning not to fuck this up further while I debate telling the psychiatrist that I’d rather jump into oncoming traffic than go home again.
More conversations happen around me. Release forms are signed. Pamphlets about crisis hotlines are handed over. I answer some questions about my mental health with easy lies until they’re satisfied I’m not going to hurt myself again.
Later, while I’m waiting for the go-ahead to leave, Joel’s mask finally slips once his patience wears thin.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he hisses. “Do you have any idea how this makes me look? The whole department knows about this stunt you pulled.”
Of course that’s what he’s worried about. His reputation. In one morning, I’ve shattered the illusion he’s built of a perfect husband and a happy wife.
“I’m sorry,” I say, though my voice is flat. I can’t pretend to care.
“Seriously,” he continues, “if you wanted attention, there were plenty of other ways to do that without making everyone think you’re fucking insane.”
I stare at the ceiling, letting his words wash over me like waves crashing against stone. Nothing he says matters anymore. I was so close to being done with him forever. Now, I’m just numb.
A nurse returns with discharge papers and a peppy smile. Joel steps back, concern instantly masking his features.
“Ready to get you home and comfortable,” he says, loud enough for the nurse to hear.
She smiles approvingly as she helps me sit up. I don’t want to sit up. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to go home. Anything would be better than returning to that life.
Joel takes the plastic bag containing my blood-stained clothes and places it on the bed beside me while the nurse removes my IV.
After she leaves, I slowly change into the set of clean clothes Joel must have gone home to get for me—sweatpants and a t-shirt. I stand and shove my hands in my pockets, where my fingers brush against something.
Pulling it out, I see that it’s a small, folded piece of paper.
I glance at Joel, who's occupied with the discharge paperwork, and carefully unfold it. Written in sharp, elegant handwriting I don't recognize is an address, but nothing more. No name, no explanation.
But I know who it’s from all the same, even if I don’t understand how or why I’d know.
It’s him.
The man from my dreams. The stranger whose face I finally saw clearly as life drained from me. He's real, and he's given me an escape route of some sort.
His words from my dreams echo in my mind. “Find me.”
I fold the paper carefully and slip it back into my pocket before Joel can notice. For the first time since waking in this sterile room, there’s a spark of hope blooming within me. It’s small, but it’s there.
By the time we step out the front doors of the hospital, I’m already concocting a plan.
The next morning, Joel leaves for work after telling me not to do anything stupid. Even my suicide attempt isn't enough to justify more than a day's absence from the department, and I’m sure he lied to his coworkers and told them someone would be here to take care of me.
Before he goes, he confiscates my car keys and phone “just to be safe.” It’s a punishment, though, no matter how much he claims it’s for my wellbeing. Just another way to control me.
The moment his cruiser pulls out of the driveway, I'm in motion. I pull a suitcase and a backpack from the closet and stuff them with whatever I can grab that I might need—clothes, toiletries, leftover pills from my old Xanax prescription, the hidden cash from my grocery store thefts.
My hands shake as I pack, my bandages pulling tight against my still-raw wounds. Every few minutes, I glance out the window, half-expecting to see Joel's car returning. The fear still sits in the pit of my stomach, but now it propels me forward instead of paralyzing me.
I make sure the address is in my pocket then zip the suitcase closed. My eyes catch on my reflection in the dresser mirror. I look the same as I did a few days ago—messy, long brown hair and a tired expression—but there’s a glimmer of hope in my tired eyes. That’s new.
As I do one last survey of the house to make sure I’m not missing anything critical, I can focus on nothing but the thrill and exhilaration of knowing that he wasn’t all in my head. He was—is— real. Maybe he was biding his time and planning on rescuing me the entire time he’s been watching me.
Satisfied that I’ve packed everything I need to, I secure the straps of my backpack on my shoulders and drag my suitcase to the front door.
I pause with one hand on the knob. Behind me lies everything I've known—the prison of my marriage, the certainty of continued pain.
Ahead lies nothing but hope in the form of an address scrawled on paper and the face of a man I've only truly seen once.
This could be further proof of my insanity. It might be my mind fracturing under the weight of too much suffering. The address might lead nowhere. The man might not exist.
But it's the only option I have left aside from the one I just failed at executing.
I step outside into the August heat that feels like being dropped in a steamer, pulling the suitcase behind me.
If this is my last desperate gamble for freedom, so be it. If I'm chasing ghosts or hallucinations, at least I'm chasing something of my own choosing.
Find me, he had said in my dreams.
If only I could tell him, I’m coming.