I remember how badly I just wanted to sleep. I was desperate for it—the comforting blackness of a dreamless sleep—and I didn’t care what I had to do to get it. I didn’t care as long as it all just...stopped. Just for one fucking night, I just wanted it all to stop. I was sick of feeling weak. Guilty. So damn angry all the time.

I was tired. So tired.

Nothing felt real anymore.

I remember looking in the mirror at some party I found myself at on Saturday night, when my spiral down took a turn I couldn’t quite come back from. All I saw was my dad looking back, and I thought, what is even the fucking point?

I felt it then—imagined I could even see it as that fine thread holding what was left of my sanity together finally snapped. I watched as the coke finished it off that night, obliterating it. Singing it into dust. It was as if I was no longer in my body, but a bystander to the life I always promised myself I’d never lead. I watched with a numb sort of acceptance as I dug myself deeper and deeper into a hole I was sure I’d never find a way out of.

Not that I even wanted to.

Anger, fear, and exhaustion were a maelstrom in my head, and I could see nothing beyond the haze of my desperation to disappear. To quiet the noise, if only for a moment.

I glance down at my arm, willing the evidence away.

I didn’t mean for things to go that far.

I didn’t want this...and yet I didn’t stop them. I vaguely remember laying out my arm, squeezing my fist. I remember feeling the slightest pin-prick and then—

Nothing.

Everything. Just. Stopped.

And then suddenly he was there.

Will.

The knight in shining armor I never asked for, not now when he was ten years too late, and the only dragon left that needed slaying was me. Because I wasn’t that kid anymore. I didn’t need a hero. I just wanted someone to finally put me out of my misery.

But there he was, along with my uncle, pulling me out from the claws of sweet oblivion like the assholes they are. I’m not not grateful. Frankly, I don’t know how to feel about it, other than sick with shame.

“Did I hurt you?”

His mouth tightens faintly. “No. Not physically.”

My eyes dance over his face, taking in the rough layer of stubble coating his cheeks and the heaviness in his gaze. It looks like he hasn’t slept a wink. I don’t remember the words I spoke to him last night, but I remember the intent behind them.

I wanted him to hurt as bad as I was hurting. I wanted him to run, run, run, and never look back.

“It’s okay—”