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 ayou’re lucky to be aliveexpression 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—probablyPatient 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.
