Bubbling Under

I was staring at myself in the mirror when Bryan rapped on the locked bathroom door.  “Rache,” he said, “come out.  I promise all I want to do is to talk.”

From his shortening of my name I knew there would be no recriminations for what I had done.  Problem was, I hadn’t a clue where to go from here—or even who I was .  “I hit you,” I said softly.  “I really hit you.”

“It’s okay.  I’m fine.  Just come out, all right?”

The skinny girl in the mirror shook her head.  The hollowness in her eyes betrayed the hollowness of her heart.  “I’m sorry,” I told her.  “I honestly am.  But I’m done.”

Sounding suspicious, Bryan said, “What do you mean, you’re done?”

“Exactly what you think I mean,” I answered, and with that Bryan pounded on the door with significantly more force than he had before.  As my devoted nurse during those long weeks of recovery, he knew that in addition to a variety of sharp objects, my medicine cabinet housed a vast assortment of potent pain pills—pain pills that I now had unrestricted access to.  “Rachel,” he shouted, “open the fucking door!”  

I read once that people who decide to kill themselves are happy, because they finally know what it is they need to do.  But I didn’t feel happy at all.  Just terribly, terribly sad.  “I can’t do that,” I answered him.  "It’s too late.”  Looking at the bruise spreading across my knuckles, I whispered, “I’m finished with this fucked up life.”