Chapter 1 The Edge of Suicide

Alicia POV

The blood diffused in the bathwater, transforming into a radiant flower.

Oh, it was my blood.

I was bleeding.

The wound soaked in the warm water, so the blood wouldn't clot, meaning my blood would keep flowing like this until it all drained out.

I would die. I should stand up. I really should.

Leave this tub of warm water and find something to bandage myself with. Logically, that's what I thought, but I lacked any motivation to rise or step out of the bathtub.

Depression had altered my brain, reducing my ability to act to zero, so I could only watch helplessly as I bled to death.

But in that moment, I also felt that maybe this wasn't so bad.

Although I was feeling weaker and my breathing more difficult, the warm water in the tub was incredibly comforting.

Soaking in it was like a child returning to the womb, as if all pain and suffering in the world would not be able to reach me here.

I had failed my third diet. Again. Third time’s a charm. No it wasn’t—not for me.

The scale confirmed what I already feared, terrorizing me with a number so large it made my stomach twist. I stared at my reflection, my fingers pinching the squishy flab of fat that I could grab with my whole hand. The weight of disappointment was much heavier than any number on the scale. Self-loathing clawed at my chest.

My sole salvation embodied a handsome form. The only thing that kept me from drowning in my own despair was Lynn—the school’s golden boy, a total heartthrob, the one I had always liked but never dared to dream of. He was one who hadn’t bullied me or insulted me in any way. In a world that made me feel invisible or, worse, a joke, he was my only relief.

When I looked at him, even just a glimpse, I believed life wasn’t so unbearable after all.

Lynn's birthday arrived, and I summoned the courage to give him a birthday gift—just a gift, a sweater I had knitted by hand, completely tailored to his size. The style resembled Ralph Lauren, but I added some small designs to make it better suit Lynn's aesthetic. I never expected Lynn to like me back; I just wanted to express my gratitude. However, when I gave him the gift, I was spotted by a small bullying gang at school. They laughed at me incessantly and questioned if Lynn was blind to like this "fat pig." If he accepted the gift, he'd end up with a "fat pig" for a girlfriend. Lynn, embarrassed and angry, threw the sweater on the ground, stomped on it twice, and issued a threat, telling me never to get near him again. My heart shattered and what was left of those fragments were decimated.

On my way home, I was ambushed by the usual pack of bullies—the authors of my anguish and the faces of all my worst night terrors. They ganged up on me and shoved me so hard that I stumbled backward, metal biting into my skin. A jagged edge of the broken iron fence tore into my arm, a sharp, searing pain ripping through me. I fought for my life and all they did was laugh, exploiting every effort for their macabre amusement. Eventually, I broke free, fear muting my pain as I ran. Every step away felt like wading through quicksand, but somehow, I escaped.

Now, submerged in steaming water, crimson swirled through the bath, staining the water like an omen. My wounds pulsed with pain, but it was nothing compared to the hollowness settling in my chest. It was a strange kind of peace—a solitary extinction, until I heard movement rustling beyond the open bathroom door.

My best friend—she wasn’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be at a community centre. Not here to witness something she would never be able to unsee. I couldn’t stop what had already unfolded. Darkness already claimed the corners of my consciousness. And my body felt too much like deadweight to do anything about it. I didn’t want to anyway.

Kayla staggered in the doorway and her scream yanked my soul back. My face was already angled towards the door, I only had to lift my eyes to see her horror-stricken face.

“Alice, oh my—”

She burst forward, her body moving before her mind could catch up, instinct seizing control and breaking the paralysis of shock. Panic was a distant thing now, drowning beneath her singular, desperate need to reach me.

Kayla skidded to her knees beside the bathtub, hands trembling as they cupped my face, fingers pressing into clammy skin that sagged lifelessly in her grasp. I eased into the warmth of her palms as she straightened my face. She wailed as she frantically patted my cheek, the dread in her voice, all too raw, urgent, pleading as the shaky breaths that shuddered free.

“Stay awake, you hear me? Her voice cracked, wavering between command and desperation because she felt she had to be strong for the both of us. “You better stay awake so you can tell me what the hell were you thinking?”

“I just… wanted him to like it,” I uttered helplessly.

“Like what? Him who?”

“Lynn,” I rasped out, tears leaking from my eyes, gathering at my jaw to be sullied by the blood-tinged waters. “If only you saw…”

“Saw what?” she asked urgently, lifting my face in her hands, a desperate bid to keep me talking. Keep me awake. “What happened, what did you see?”

“The disgust in his eyes.” Shallow words bled from my mouth. “I was ambushed, they hurt me but not as much as he did. Lynn. I made him a gift… for his birthday. And in front of everyone he destroyed it.” My words slurred by a sob, my chest heaved painfully. “I’m done, I’m just so tired… so… tired.”

With a choked sob, she plunged her hands into the blood-stained water, unfazed by the crimson plume swirling around her hands and forearms. Her fingers gripped at my arms, then beneath my shoulders, the sheer force of her will pushing against the impossible weight of my body. She heaved, teeth clenched, wincing hard—again, and again, and again—her breath coming out in harsh gasps. But I barely budged an inch.

She was powerless, refusing to accept what was inevitable. Still, she pulled. As if her own life depended on it. Frustration erupted from her throat in a broken cry, her tears falling, mixing with the water and with the blood. And still—she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Because to stop was to lose me.

Nothing could change what I have unfolded. And even if, by whatever unlikelihood, I could take it back—what would change? Nothing. Neither of us could afford an ambulance with our incomes.

Kayla latched onto the threadbare tip of my life. She was a trembling, determined force of nature, refusing to let go even as the thread of my life unraveled between her fingers. She clung to it with everything she had. And no wound could match the pain of her cry. It was a sound that would haunt me between lifetimes forever, no matter how long—or short—forever turned out to be.

“Kay,” I breathed, black spots swimming across my vision.

“Don’t you worry,” she murmured, voice thick with emotion, the words barely holding steady beneath the weight of her own fear. “I’m going to get you out of here,” she promised.

“You won’t.”

“Alice…”

I wanted to console her, hold her so that she could let me go. But my body no longer belonged to me. My limbs felt distant, numb, floating in the lukewarm water. I could barely feel it because the sensations in my body were fading into something deathly still.

Though my words were soft, barely more than a breath, they carried a finality that cut deeper than any blade. She froze, her body going rigid as the truth of my resignation sunk into her bones like something chilling.

She pulled back just enough to meet my gaze, but her grip remained firm, fingers digging into my good arm as if letting go would mean losing me forever. A clear message even in that—she would never let go.

“Alice,” she choked out again, her voice breaking under the pressure of panic, “what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m tired,” I croaked out my confession, “of everything. I can’t take it anymore.” The sluggishness in my voice made the words feel heavier, and slower, as speaking was becoming an unbearable effort.

“There is nothing in this world… that makes this suffering worth it.”

A sharp inhale. A tremor in her hands. And then, barely above a whisper, she said, “What about me?”

Her voice cracked as did what was left of my heart. Her breath hitched on a sob that hadn’t fully formed yet. Tears shimmered in her eyes, threatening to spill over, overwhelmed with disbelief, and a heartbreaking sense of betrayal.

“You don’t care about me?”

I swallowed, my throat dry, aching, burning with truths both known and unknown.

“You know I do—”

“Then prove it.”

I almost sank from helplessness. The plea ripped through her mournful veil, determined and desperate, shaking with the force of her grief. Her fingers curled tighter around my arm, nails biting into my skin as if the pain might jolt me back to her, might force me to fight.

“Don’t do this to me,” she sobbed, her entire body trembling, as though she alone could shoulder the weight of my suffering if only I let her. “Because guess what. I won’t let you.”

I mustered a sad smile. “That isn’t your choice to make.”

She wilted at that truth, her breath stuttering, shoulders deflating as if my words had hollowed her out from the inside. For a moment, she was still, trapped in a moment suspended between despair and determination.

But then something flickered behind her eyes—an epiphany striking like lightning. Something that expelled all dread and only left determination. That jolt of realization revived her with newfound purpose.

With frantic urgency, she scrambled to her feet, water sloshing wildly around her. Her sleeves hung heavy, soaked through, but she didn’t even think to roll them up. It didn’t matter. For her, nothing mattered except me.

“If I can’t get you to help, then I’ll just have to get help to you.”

She wrenched herself away to fling open the low-lying bathroom cabinet. She dove to her knees to reach inside, pushing past toiletries with reckless haste. And with a single yank, she pulled out the first-aid kit, sending everything sprawling on the ground. She dropped it on the floor and flipped it open, rifling through the contents, eyes drowning in a deluge.

My vision wavered as the world tilted to allow the darkness to creep in, eating away at the edges of my sight. Kayla blurred, splitting into three wavering figures before merging into one again. Her breath hitched—a sharp, panicked sound—as she knelt beside me, her hand plunging into the blood-tinged water. She hoisted my forearm with trembling care as she examined the wound on my wrist, crimson spilling in slow, sluggish ribbons down my skin.

Her other hand fumbled blindly behind her where the first-aid kit lay open. Then it was like something inside of her broke. A strangled noise struggled from her throat before she fell back and kicked the kit away with her foot. Her eyes darted around the room, wild, searching, as if the solution was within the ruin of my making.

Her eyes snared on something—there—nestled between bottles and beauty products was a prescription bottle of antidepressant medication. She picked it up slowly as if touching it might burn. The label that was smudged and worn bore my name.

Kayla’s breath left her in a shudder. Her face twisted, pain flashing through her features. It wasn’t just the horror she felt. It was a realization, a dark and an unchangeable truth.

Now she knew a glimpse of how much I suffered. Something buried so deep no one had noticed—until now. With a sharp shift in her expression, she banished those emotions, bottling them for another day as an unyielding resolve settled on her.

“I know who can help you,” she said with an epiphanic look. “The psychiatrist—Doctor Lucas!”