I had nothing else.
Nothing but a nearly fatal dose of drugs in my system and a gash across my wrist under several layers of gauze.
I was not suicidal.
I didn’t care what the hell the doctors were saying.
I had a beautiful life.
Charmed, even.
I lived acharmedlife.
And I got it. There was a precedent for rich, successful people who had everything the world had to offer who were hiding behind a happy veneer and ended up taking their own lives.
It happened.
Maybe it even happened often enough for them not to take me at my word when things looked so definitive.
But I would never, ever take my own life.
It didn’t matter what happened, what you told me, how you might have ruined my life.
See, they couldn’t know this, wouldn’t even care if I told them, but my best friend in high school had taken her own life in her college dorm during our freshmen year.
I’d never known grief like that before or after.
To this very day, I caught myself wanting to call her and tell her something, to laugh over ice cream or go take a rain walk to “soothe our souls.”
I never wanted anyone else to feel that loss like I had to. Not if I could help it anyway.
I simply… wouldn’t do it.
I wouldn’t attempt it.
Nothing.
I had no freaking idea what had actually happened, but I had to find out.
In seventy-two hours, apparently.
I couldn’t even begin to explain how utterly impossible it was for me to disappear for three days.
And if it ever got out that I’d been committed against my will?
“Shit,” I hissed, running a hand over my face.
I needed help.
But my purse and phone were nowhere to be found.
And pretty soon, I knew what was going to happen.
I was going to be stripped and have no access to anyone but the psych ward staff for three days.
Casting a glance around, I noticed that one of the ladies who was assigned to watch us “crazy people” was occupied with something on her phone.
I reached my hand under the sheet, finding my smartwatch still on my wrist.