Fragments

Chapter 1

Lennon

Rain droplets slithered down the window of my second-story apartment. I watched their movements—repetitive, mindless, yet oddly calming—losing myself in the monotony of it all.

Blinking, I looked down at the water I was submerged in, my bare body lying still beneath the surface. The bathwater had gone cold, yet I hadn’t moved. Why couldn’t I just fucking do it already? My eyes squeezed shut, willing myself to be fucking brave, just this once.

Death had entered my mind long ago—as far back as I could remember, from the night that everything changed.

Once it arrived, it never left. It had set up shop, burrowed in, clinging to whatever flesh it could sink its claws into.

It gnawed inside me, turning good, soul-filled things into rotting carcasses.

The darkness spread deeper and deeper until every trace of hope vanished.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt okay.

Maybe I never had.

I sucked in a desperate breath before hauling myself up and out of the clawfoot tub that had enveloped me for the past hour.

Cool air prickled against my skin, encouraging goosebumps to pebble instantly.

I lifted one foot over the edge and stepped onto the towel that was laid across the floor.

A familiar heaviness settled on my shoulders, like the weight of the world pressing down.

But that wasn’t new.

“I’m just running to the grocery store, pumpkin. Did you want to tag along?” he asked gently. I huffed, like an ungrateful brat. “Do I get to pick out a toy?”

He chuckled to himself. “Not every outing means you get something in return. Come! Give Mama some time to herself.” I shook my head stubbornly and crossed my arms. He eyed me with those green eyes that matched mine with unconditional love and kindness.

Kneeling to my level, his outstretched arms, motioning for me to give him a big hug. Moments passed by while I refrained.

“I want a toy!” I barked at the same time as stomping my foot.

Chuckling half-heartedly, he pushed the weight of his body upwards from his knee and stood back up. “Love you, pumpkin. I’ll be home soon and maybe, just maybe, we can watch a movie since it’s the weekend!”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Those fucking nightmares wouldn’t fade, no matter how hard I tried.

It had been years, yet they still felt just as fresh as the moments they happened.

They crept in when I least expected—blurring the edges of my vision, demanding to be seen.

A constant reminder of just how much I had failed.

I wrapped my frigid body in an oversized towel, forcing myself to choke back the tears threatening to fall. This wasn’t the time for pity, it wouldn’t get me anywhere now. None of it would.

This was all my doing. My entire life had pivoted in an instant, rocked off its axis, all because of the choices I made.

Those selfish fucking choices.

Breathing a deep sigh, I stalked toward my bedroom, searching for something decent to wear to my therapy appointment.

Rachel was hell-bent on changing my mind about suicide.

She never outright said I shouldn’t think about it, but she poured everything into understanding the psychology behind why I felt the way I did.

I supposed it was her job, but sometimes it just felt like she didn’t get it—didn’t get me.

Instead I felt like I was some kind of project.

A specimen under her microscope, always under examination.

I yanked open the stubborn closet door and took stock of what was left. Laundry day was creeping up again. The weight that was on my shoulders grew heavier.

One more task. One more unbearable task.

I couldn’t.

I just couldn’t…

Peering behind me, scanning the floor of my cramped bedroom, I spotted a beige hoodie and a pair of wide-leg jeans that looked somewhat clean. I brought them to my face, inhaling deeply, checking for any trace of expiration. Good enough.

Once I got dressed, I made my way to the bathroom—I couldn’t hold off much longer before it all became unbearable.

Snapping open the cabinet, I reached for the unlabelled pill bottle—my tiny stash of freedom. Earlier this year, when I’d been admitted for suicidal ideation, I met a guy in the ER, Jase. He had cancer.

They’d given him Dilaudid, along with a cocktail of other meds for pain management, but he hated the way they made him feel.

Me? I was there looking for anything that could numb what was clawing at me from the inside out.

Cue a match made in whatever version of hell this life is.

Since then, Jase and I had struck a quiet arrangement. Thanks to him, I maintained a predictable stock of hydromorphs that dulled the sharp edges of misery that clung to my body. Opening the bottle, I exhaled softly, eyes shutting.

Two pills left. I’d need to message him today.

But then, a flicker of confusion passed through me. Had I taken too many this week? The days had started bleeding together, and I couldn’t remember if I’d paced myself or screwed up again.

I was getting sloppy.

Shit.

Crushing the two remaining pills on the sink counter, I haphazardly snorted the powder, feeling the burn—especially from the pieces I hadn’t crushed finely enough. The sting forced tears from the corners of my eyes. Then came the rush, blasting through my veins, followed by that familiar warmth.

Ah…there it was.

That relaxing, euphoric feeling that made even the lowest of lows fade into something tolerable.

I had become desperate for it—the blissful silence inside my muddied head.

Blinking, I realized I was seated on the floor.

I needed the high to taper off just a little before leaving to see Rachel.

She would notice—she always did—and though I didn’t care what people thought, something about the way her expression drooped when she realized I was high always hit differently.

It always cut through my buzz, and I couldn’t afford to lose that right now.

I exited the bathroom, stumbling slightly as my shoulder slammed into the doorframe.

My apartment was large—stupidly large—so when I stepped out, I entered the hallway that led to the kitchen.

I had blown my dad’s life insurance policy on this oversized, pointless waste of space.

Instead I could’ve survived in some shithole tucked into a forgotten corner of the city, paying a fraction of the rent.

The kitchen was a disaster. Noodle bowls and coffee cups littered the counters, end tables—even the floor. They had claimed permanent residency. I should’ve felt embarrassed, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

There wasn’t enough room in my mind for shame—not with everything else taking up space. I barely registered the mess anymore. Grabbing my worn leather crossbody bag, I made my way to the front door; a walking, dishevelled mess.

I should’ve brushed my hair—Rachel always noticed. She’d try to pretend she wasn’t looking, but I caught her almost every time. Her eyes would scan me, top to bottom, cataloguing every detail. It was impossible not to notice her analysing me.

Rachel wasn’t judging me, but there was no doubt she was noticing my decline.

If I had friends, they would’ve noticed, too.

But my life had been made by design. I wasn’t close to anyone for this reason.

I didn’t want to have to answer to anyone.

I didn’t want to feel like I was disappointing someone.

I didn’t want to have to explain myself or be made to feel bad about my situation.

Since I had moved out on my own, the loneliness had only emphasized my situation.

Before I received my life insurance payout—which had been held until I turned eighteen—I lived in the foster care system since I was seven.

Survival had been the main focus throughout those years since I had nothing else.

Once I moved out, I no longer had to try to survive—all I had to focus on was living.

Oddly enough, I was tired of living. I was tired of trying to stay afloat in this life. The overwhelming feeling of loneliness was crippling. And at some point I realized, this wasn’t living either.

Loneliness would’ve been an easy fix if meeting people and learning to trust them had been accessible to someone like me. But I couldn’t trust people anymore.

Trust was for people who didn’t know what it felt like to have it betrayed.

Walking out the front door, the August breeze struck my body like an assault.

I closed my eyes and carried on down the sidewalk toward Rachel’s office.

She was located six blocks from me, in a six-story building on the very top floor.

I didn’t love tall buildings or being that high up, but her office was designed so minimally—all neutrals and curved edges—that my comfort eventually evened out my thoughts, especially the more that I went.

I tucked my arms together, holding my chest tightly.

From the perspective of the world around me, it was the ideal day—warm temperatures with a slight breeze to cut the humidity.

For me, it only reminded me of sitting in that fucking hellhole with my mother.

The place had been stifling from the lack of air conditioning, so when she passed out from the drugs, I couldn’t tell if she was dead or not.

It left me vulnerable to any passerby slinking around while my mom couldn’t do anything to stop them.

Not that she would’ve, anyway.

Nowadays, I have a physical reaction to heat—a subconscious reminder of worse times. Now that I was physically out of those situations, all I had was the leftover trauma. I didn’t know what was worse anymore—being in those moments, or reliving them every day.

Back then, I had small bouts of hope. Hope that it would end, that I could escape, that something better was waiting for me. But now that I was on the other side, I knew differently.

I knew there never was hope.

Shaking my head, I searched somewhere inside myself for the high I’d had moments ago, wishing it would return. Maybe Rachel could distract me. I just needed to get there.

Four blocks to go.

I looked ahead to find others seemingly lost in their own worlds.

A woman jogged in her athletic wear—the poster child for health and discipline. A young man waited for a bus in a knock-off business suit, probably on his way to his first interview at some fancy-ass law firm. A man sat slumped against a building, the last time he showered looking questionable.

I held myself closer as I pushed forward, my ratty, bleached-out hair tossing wildly in the breeze.

Up ahead, I spotted my destination. A slight wave of relief washed over me, knowing I wouldn’t have to be outside much longer. I could be inside—just for a little while—and then return to my apartment.

But first, I had something I needed to discuss with Rachel.

After working with her for the last couple of years, I knew this topic was going to be a difficult one for her to process.

But she was the only one qualified to hear it.

The only one who wasn’t supposed to try and change my mind.

I almost began to run toward the front entrance, my pace quickening noticeably. I was finally there. The anxiety that had been creeping up my neck began to settle back down, slinking back to where it came from.

Suffocation—that was the best way to describe what it felt like to leave the comfort of my home.

Gripping the large commercial doors, I yanked them open and stepped inside.

The golden elevator doors were already open, ready to accept me.

I stepped in and pressed the number six on the panel, then jabbed the close door button repeatedly until the doors finally obeyed and began to move.

A breath escaped my lungs—subtle, but full of relief—as the elevator lifted me gently toward the sixth-floor office.

When the doors opened, they revealed the front desk of Dr. Rachel Montgomery, PsyD.

The receptionist recognized me and gave a small wave, simultaneously pressing the button to notify Rachel that I was on my way in. I returned a half-hearted smile and walked past her, heading straight for the office door.

Inside, Rachel sat in the beautiful white chair that was somehow both effortlessly elegant and comfortable. She stood to greet me, as she always did, and gestured toward the couch—the one I had spent more time on than my own.

“Good afternoon, Lennon. So lovely to see you again,” she said cheerfully.

I smiled faintly. “Back at you.”

Rachel sat down, notebook and pen already in hand. I lowered myself onto the couch, tossed my crossbody bag onto the floor, and reached inside to pull out a folded piece of paper—the one I had brought specifically for this very conversation.

I had been researching a program for weeks, and I couldn’t bring it up yet without knowing every detail—every requirement, every outcome, every loophole—in case Rachel tried to talk me out of it. I needed to be prepared. I needed to have a leg to stand on.

When I looked up, she was already watching me with curiosity.

“I have something I’d like to talk about,” I said, searching inside myself for even the smallest shred of confidence.

Rachel gestured gracefully. “The floor is yours, Lennon.”

I unfolded the paper slowly and took a deep breath.

“I’m interested in joining this pilot program,” I started.

Rachel’s expression shifted—subtly, but I saw it. She already knew what was coming.

She nodded for me to go on.

“This pilot program is happening now, here in the city. And I want to apply for it. I want to apply for the Assisted Suicide for Mental Health program.”