Chapter 9

I kept my eyes closed for a long time, not hearing him say anything. I figured he must've left.

I slumped over the edge of the bed, too exhausted to even open my eyes.

I fumbled for the pill bottle on the nightstand, twisted it open, and poured a handful straight into my mouth.

I swallowed several, but nothing happened. I figured maybe if I took even more, they'd finally kick in.

Half the bottle was already down when, out of nowhere, someone ripped it away from me.

My dad's voice crashed through the fog, a mix of shock and rage. "Who told you to take painkillers like that? Isabelle, are you trying to kill yourself? Have you lost your mind?"

But the pain was too much. I couldn't take it anymore.

He snatched the bottle from me and threw it to the floor, then reached out, trying to force my mouth open.

Panicked, I forced the pills down my throat.

Without any water, they burned like fire as they went down.

I really couldn't take the pain anymore. I wanted some relief.

As for whether I live or die, that wasn't my call anymore.

Once the pills went down, I started gagging uncontrollably.

Some of it ended up on my dad's sleeve, mixed with blood.

I really didn't want to end up like this—so helpless and falling apart.

Back then, I tended to look good, stay spotless, and keep my pride intact.

But now, with death knocking at my door, all that dignity was gone.

Seeing the blood, my dad froze mid-motion, his frantic hands suddenly stopping as he tried to force my mouth open.

When I looked up, his eyes were rimmed with red, like he'd been holding back tears.

After a long moment, it looked like he was actually crying.

The only other time I'd ever seen my dad cry was the day he brought home my brother's and mom's ashes.

Lately, I kept imagining things that weren't really there.

And now, here I was, caught up in those illusions all over again.

I thought he must still care about me, or he wouldn't break down like this for me.

He stared at the blood on his sleeve, frozen for a moment, then suddenly came to his senses.

My dad reached out again, trying to pry my mouth open. "Spit it out. Listen to me, okay?

"Isabelle, you can't take painkillers like this. How many did you swallow?"

I could hear his voice getting more and more shaky.

He pried my mouth open, but there was nothing left inside.

My chest was aching fiercely, and my stomach was in turmoil.

I grabbed his arm, struggling to get out of bed, but ended up falling hard to the floor.

My ears were ringing like crazy.

I heard my dad's voice, panicked and blurry. "I'll get you to the hospital.

"Isabelle, get up. We're going to the hospital."

I couldn't get up.

He leaned on his cane, using all his strength to help me, but he couldn't get me off the floor.

I could hear his voice—trembling, anxious, helpless, and full of guilt.

He continued, "Sweetheart, please get up. Don't make this harder. Dad can't carry you anymore."

My mind was fading, and I could feel all the warmth leaving my body.

I struggled to get up, but I collapsed hard onto the floor, completely helpless.

The air was thick with the scent of blood, and half my face and neck were sticky with it.

As my consciousness faded, I heard my dad's panicked, helpless voice calling out to me. "Isabelle, don't fall asleep. How how did it come to this?"