Chapter 17
Seventeen
Blair
The first thing I hear is the beeping.
God. That beeping. Slow, steady, obnoxiously self-important—like it’s proud of keeping me alive. Like it thinks it’s doing me a favor.
Then comes the smell. Bleach. Latex. That sterile, too-clean scent that tells you you’re either in a hospital or a serial killer’s wet dream.
I crack my eyes open and immediately regret it.
The ceiling is a flat, aggressive white—too bright, too fake, like someone painted over hell and called it healing.
My vision blurs around the edges, like someone smeared Vaseline over my corneas. I try to sit up.
Yeah. Cute fucking idea, Blair.
My ribs and spine protests. My throat feels like I gargled razor blades and chased them with battery acid. And my mouth? Tastes like blood and regret. Which feels... on brand.
I’m in a hospital.
That realization hits slow, then all at once. I’m alive. Not exactly thriving, but here. IV in my arm, bandages on my leg, monitor blinking beside me like it’s checking to see if I’ll try to die again just for the drama.
Cool.
“Good morning,” chirps a nurse I didn’t hear enter. Blonde, middle-aged, with a face like she’s seen too many overdoses and stopped being surprised by the wreckage. “Glad you’re finally awake. We almost lost you after someone dropped you off, a few times.”
“Someone?” My voice comes out cracked and grainy. Like gravel dragged across asphalt.
She nods, flipping through my chart like I’m just another near-corpse in a bed. “Didn’t leave a name. No ID. Just carried you in, said you needed help, and disappeared.”
And that’s all it takes.
The memories don’t trickle in—they fucking crash.
Hands on me. Rough. Grimy. The van. The zip ties digging into my wrists. The bag over my head. The voice whispering, “She’s prettier than her sister.”
I see the basement—cold, reeking of bleach and rot. I remember the fists. The bruises. Someone holding my face. Forcing my mouth open. Shoving the pills down my throat while I choked and clawed and screamed.
Then nothing.
Just darkness.
Just pain.
Just the echo of my name, someone screaming it as I slipped under.
I grip the edges of the blanket, knuckles white. I’m shaking. No, trembling. Like my body’s trying to escape the memory even while it plays on loop behind my eyes.
Of course they didn’t leave a name.
Because heroes don’t exist. Not in my world. Just dealers, liars, ghosts—and me, the girl who keeps waking up when she probably shouldn’t.
Because why stick around when the show’s over? The Blair Disaster Hour has officially fucking wrapped. Curtain closed. No encore.
A few hours later, another nurse walks in—clipboard, tired eyes, and a you’re lucky to be alive expression that doesn’t quite match the energy in the room. She drops a folded pile of clothes on the chair beside me like she’s tossing scraps to a stray.
“These were donated,” she says, already scanning the monitor beside me. “You came in with nothing but a bra and panties.”
“Wow. Sexy and tragic. Love that for me.”
She doesn’t react. Not a twitch. Not a raised brow. Just keeps charting something on her clipboard like she’s listing the ways I’m not her problem.
I glance at the pile of clothing—gray track pants, a zip-up hoodie, and a sealed plastic pouch with new underwear and socks. All generic, all anonymous, like the life I’ve apparently woken up in.
I clear my throat, though it feels like sandpaper and regret. “So… when do I get to leave?”
The nurse finally looks at me. “You’ll need to be evaluated by psych first. Standard protocol after an overdose. Assuming everything checks out, you’ll be free to go.”
“Right. Because I’m such a glowing picture of mental stability.”
She writes something—probably Patient displays sarcasm. Possible deflection —then moves toward the door.
“Rest,” she says, like that’s a thing people like me get to do. “Psych will be in tomorrow.”
And just like that, she’s gone.
Later the next day, I pass their stupid test.
I smile when I’m supposed to. Nod at the right moments. Say all the magic words like, "I'm fine," and "No, I don’t want to hurt myself," and "Yes, I understand the importance of follow-up care."
I lie through my teeth.
The bus smells like piss and broken dreams, but at least it’s moving. At least it’s taking me somewhere that might feel real again.
Until it isn’t.
Because the second I step off at the stop near the motel, the world tilts.
The building’s the same shape, but that’s about it. The paint’s fresh. Too fresh. The busted light by the front office is fixed. The goddamn vending machine has new snacks. No broken picnic bench. No hookers loitering out front. No neon buzz. Just... normal.
I stare at it like I’ve walked into the wrong universe.
My room’s unlocked. That’s the first thing that sends a chill down my spine.
But inside—it’s all there. My duffel. My bag of laundry. The half-eaten bag of chips on the table. It’s like I never left.
Except my phone’s on the nightstand. Dead.
I plug it in with shaking hands, pacing as it comes to life. First thing I do—go to contacts.
No Dagger.
I check messages.
Nothing.
No calls. No texts. No anything.
Just… blank. Like he never fucking existed.
My heart stutters.
I rip through the room. Clothes fly. Sheets hit the floor. My suitcase gets dumped upside down.
No hoodie.
No T-shirt.
No.
No, this can’t be—this isn’t —I’m not fucking crazy.
Right?
I blink. Rub my hands down my face, trying to ground myself. Trying to breathe. It doesn’t help. The air tastes like iron and ash, like the last breath before something breaks.
Maybe the overdose scrambled you worse than you thought. Maybe you imagined it all. Noir. Dagger. The raves. Brynn's photo. The fights. The fucking. All of it.
No. No, fuck no .
I’m not insane. I’m not.
I felt them.
I remember the way Dagger’s voice dropped when he was close. The way Noir’s eyes burned when he looked at me like he already knew how I’d fall apart for him. The bass in the warehouse. The glitter. The pills. The fucking hoodie that smelled like nicotine and regret.
It was real. It had to be.
I suck in a breath and spin, pulling out my phone to call a ride. Uber shows up in five. I don’t wait—I pace.
I don’t blink the whole drive. Every stoplight feels like a scream in my skull. When the car finally pulls up to the alley behind the warehouse, I’m out before it fully stops, feet hitting the pavement like I can outrun the panic rising in my chest.
Only it’s... wrong.
Everything is wrong.
The alley smells like fresh paint and rain. The graffiti is gone. The metal doors are new. No burn marks, no broken locks. No grime caked into the seams where kids with glow sticks once disappeared into shadows.
I stumble up to a guy leaning against the loading dock, clipboard in hand.
“Hey. Do you—do you know where Noir is? Or Cass? Dagger?”
He frowns. “You okay, miss?”
“I just need to find them, they were always here. The parties, the lights, the rave?—”
He cuts me off with a shake of his head. “This place hasn’t been open for events in years. Was abandoned when the city bought it out last fall. Construction started two months ago.”
No. That’s not possible.
I stammer something, backpedal, and wave for another ride. The next stop is the clubhouse.
It has to be there. If anywhere still exists—it’s that.
The whole ride there, I’m shaking. Mumbling their names like a prayer I don’t even believe in anymore.
Dagger. Noir. Cass. Dagger. Noir. Cass.
Over and over, like repetition might make them real again.
But the second the Uber turns the corner, I know.
It’s wrong.
The house— their house—is a fucking suburban postcard now.
There’s a silver minivan in the driveway with a baby on board sticker like it belongs to some PTA president.
A little tricycle lies half-flipped in the grass.
A basketball hoop leans off the garage, like it’s seen one too many failed layups.
Then the door opens.
A woman steps out in yoga pants and a zip-up hoodie, baby on her hip, hair in a messy blonde bun that looks way too functional for someone living in what was supposed to be a drug dealer’s den. She waves at the Uber. At me.
My breath catches, and then he comes out.
A man. Baseball cap. Graphic tee. He’s holding a sippy cup and guiding a toddler down the steps.
I blink.
Hard.
What the actual fuck.
The Uber driver glances at me through the rearview. “This the place?”
I stare.
No leather jackets. No bikes. No metal doors or security cams. No neon skulls. Just flower pots. Lawn toys. A goddamn basketball hoop.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, like it’ll explain anything. “Was I really that fucked up?”
The driver chuckles politely. “Sorry?”
“Take me back. Into the city. Back to the motel.”
He nods, turns the car around. But I barely feel it. Everything outside the window’s just noise now. Wind and trees and headlights. A low hum pressing in on me.
I actually fucking made all of it up. Holy fuck.
We get to the motel and I get out like I’m on autopilot, hands numb, legs wooden. But I don’t go to the room. Not yet. I just start walking. Toward the beach. Toward the only place that still makes sense.
The night air hits like a slap, but I keep going. Down the side street. Past the empty playground. Through the broken fence someone duct-taped months ago and never fixed.
The sand is cool and soft under my flip flops. The ocean glows faint in the distance, and the world is too quiet.
I walk until my legs give out. Until my lungs ache. Until the grief pulls me down like an undertow. Then, I drop to the sand and just stay there, fingers curled in the sand like maybe I’ll find answers buried under the surface.
But all I find is nothing.
No proof.
No hoodie, or rave.
Just me.
A girl who nearly died and made up a fantasy to keep herself from drowning.
I let my head fall forward. My shoulders shake, I cry.
Really fucking cry.
Because maybe I didn’t survive anything at all.
Maybe I just woke up to the lie I told myself to make survival actually worth it.