I glance at her over my shoulder as Aiden holds her in place with both arms around her stomach while she struggles to be set free to no avail.

“We agree on that,” I say, and then I’m out in the night.

The cold air causes goosebumps to erupt over my skin. My face turns numb and the freezing air seeps to my bones.

I stop in front of my car, retrieve a joint, and light it. The smoke is like an instant tranquiliser. I close my eyes for a bit, savouring the pungent taste.

My options are either to drink or to fight.

Or I can do both at the same time.

After all, I’m on a limited time until I’m shipped off to where Dad sees fit. I’m eighteen and could leave on my own, but where would I go?

Maybe it’s the thought of being alone that grates on my skin more than the lack of the luxurious life.

I can see myself ten years from now, partying and fighting and drinking. Or maybe I won’t be alive ten years from now, because I’ll get myself killed in one of those fights.

Or because of drowning my liver in alcohol.

My phone vibrates.

I leave the joint in my mouth as I retrieve it.

The thing in my chest picks up speed immediately. It’s as if I’m in a bleak world and then she barges in like a spark.

A spark I’ve been slowly killing – while also killing myself.

It’s a text message.

Kimberly: I wish you were never my friend. I wish you had never told me you’d be there for me. I wish you didn’t know so much about me and still chose not to be with me. I wish there was never me or you or us.

My lips part and the joint nearly falls to the ground as I read and re-read the text.

No.

No, she didn’t.

I hit her name and call her. She doesn’t pick up. I kick the car and don’t stop to think about the pain as I type.

Xander: Pick up the fucking phone, Kimberly.

No answer.

Xander: I don’t wish I didn’t meet you. I never did.

Still nothing.

Fuck!

I throw the joint away and jump into my car, driving back home in a speed I’ve never done before.

I arrive in five minutes sharp. All the time, I keep calling her over and over again.

Then I call Kir and he says he’s spending the night with his friend.

That makes me hit the steering wheel as soon as I hang up on him. He’s been her balance, and the one she’s looked at when she’s had those destructive thoughts.

Now that he isn’t there, there’s nothing that stops her.

Don’t you dare, Green. Don’t you fucking dare.

I swerve the car to the Reed’s driveway and barge outside, not bothering to close the Porsche’s door.

I don’t pretend to be clueless as I hit in the code to their house. I’ve seen her put it a thousand times. Besides, Kir often forgets it and I have to help him.

No one greets me when I step inside. That bitch Jeanine must be in her studio, and Mari is probably fast asleep.

I hit in the code again to shut off the alarm, then I ascend the stairs two steps at a time.

There’s been this something in my chest since I read her text. Something morbid and dark and so fucking wrong.

Don’t.

Don’t.

Don’t.

I pause outside her room, my fingers hesitant as I push the door open.

There hasn’t been a day where I forgot where her room is or how we used to sit and watch shows together, or how she used to tell me jokes that weren’t funny, but I laughed anyway because her expression was adorable.

The fact I’m coming back here under these circumstances is like a jab straight to the groin.

“Kimberly.” Her name catches in my throat as my feet slowly drag on the floor.

No answer.

“I’m coming in.”

Still no reply.

I step into her room, and there’s no one there. Just her made-up bed and the open wardrobe that’s filled with green clothes.

Instead of releasing a breath of relief, I’m unable to breathe at all. My lungs burn as I head to the bathroom, a strange premonition telling me she’s there.

“Kimberly?” I call in a helpless try to get an answer. Or a sound.

Anything from her would do.

I drag my feet to the entrance and the worst-case scenario materialises in front of me.

Blood.

So much fucking blood.

Kimberly sits on the floor beside the toilet, her back leaning against the wall, and she’s surrounded by bags of crisps, pills, and a bottle of alcohol.

Her head lolls at an awkward angle and her green strands half-camouflage her expression.

My eyes go straight to the trail of blood soaking her cat pyjamas and the tiles beneath her.

So much fucking blood.

One of her hands holds a blade and her previously scarred wrist is now cut open, oozing blood all over the white tiles.

I run towards her, cursing out loud like a lunatic and grab towels on the way.

The first towel soaks immediately after I wrap it, so I add another one. Then something glints in her cut hand.

A bloodied bracelet dangles from her fingers.

I almost break at the view. It’s the bracelet I gave her for her eleventh birthday. The last gift I ever gave her, which I thought she threw away.

I push that thought out of the present and place two fingers on the pulse point in her neck while keeping pressure on her wrist.

The waiting time is probably seconds, but it feels like centuries. The more she doesn’t show any sign of life, the more I stop breathing altogether.

“Come on, Green.” My voice is hoarse with the pent-up emotions swirling inside me.

My grip tightens around her wrist as I lean my forehead against hers. “Don’t go, please. I’ll be the one to go, I promise.”

The moment her pulse thumps under my thumb, I release a long breath. It’s as if I’m coming from the dark, suffocating underground.

Her pulse is weak and barely there, but it exists.

I bandage one more towel around her wrist, keeping the pressure as I dial 999.

From here on, there are only two options. Either she lives or I don’t.

 

 

21

 

 

Kimberly

 

 

Numb.

That’s the only feeling that remains in my head as I slowly open my eyes.

It’s something strange. Being numb, I mean.

There’s nothing in there. No emotions. No thoughts. And most of all, no pain.

It’s like a blank canvas.

I always loathed blank canvases when Mum brought them over. At least she paid them attention and made them pieces of art.

People think the ‘nothing’ state of mind is the best to have.

It’s not.

Slowly, that nothingness morphs into irrevocable darkness that you can never escape.

A fog. A numbness.

While I never had Mum’s artistic streak, I always wanted someone to touch my blank canvas, paint on it, somehow revive it.

Make it a piece of art.

Slowly, too slowly, my surroundings register. The white walls and the bleach. The unfamiliarity and then…the familiarity itself.

The hospital.

I’m at the hospital because I cut myself. This time, I went in too deep that I had to be admitted. This time, I don’t have to google ways to stop the bleeding or hide the scars.

That’s when the most dooming realisation hits me.