Page 63 of The Truth About Love

This is the first time I’ve hurt myself like thison purpose.

Except… I was never supposed to wake up in a hospital bed to my sister weeping next to me.

I wasn’t supposed to wake up at all.

“Hey, Winter,” I croak, forcing a reassuring smile on my face in the hopes that she’ll stop crying.

She doesn’t.

Her eyes lift to mine, worn out and defeated, before more tears rain down and stain the scratchy linen bedsheets.

“Why did you do it?” She asks between sobs.

“Thought it would be fun,” I deadpan.

“That’s not fucking funny, Summer. Do you think this is a joke?”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” I sigh, refusing to look her in the eye. “You know why I did it. To die, Winter. I wanted to die.”

She sucks in a sharp breath like my admission has come as a shock.

Why else would someone throw themselves off a pedestrian bridge into oncoming traffic?

“But,why?” she whispers. “I don’t understand. Help me understand.”

I sigh and burrow my head into the pillow. Talking about this is too much. I don’t want to revisit the thoughts I had before I took that step, don’t want to relive those moments or remember what drove me to do what I did.

Not now, not today.

And not with Winter, who already shoulders so much of the weight of my mental illness.

Though I’ve never asked her to, she’s been there each time I’ve fallen to pick me back up again. It was her who insisted I stay at her house for a while so that she can keep an eye on me, despite having two young sons to care for. It’s been a year now and I’m still sleeping in her spare room, so I’m not blind to the fact I’m a burden.

I refuse to add more to that.

Thankfully, the door opening distracts Winter from the conversation and she rapidly wipes her eyes before turning to the doctor with a forced smile.

“Oh, great,” the doctor says. “You’re awake.”

Dr Harrison, according to the lanyard hanging from her neck, is a woman in her late forties with greying hair and a stern yet benevolent face. She steps up to my bedside, clipboard in hand and pencil balanced behind her ear, and fiddles with the tubes of one of my IV’s.

“So,” she starts, studying her notes. “A fractured ankle, one deep skin laceration on your left thigh, some soft tissue damage and a healthy dose of road rash. I imagine you’re probably feeling pretty sore right now but count your lucky stars to have gotten off so lightly.”

Huh.

Lucky.

Why is it that I’ve been feeling the exact opposite since the second I opened my eyes?

“I don’t understand,” I say, my voice hoarse. “How is that even possible?”

“According to a couple of people the paramedics spoke to, you landed on the roof of a car which significantly reduced the height of the fall. Traffic was luckily slowing anyway, so by the time you rolled onto the road, the car behind had enough time to stop before hitting you.”

I should have just taken an overdose.

Speaking hurts, but I don’t have words to say anyway, so I turn my head to stare out over Winter’s shoulder through the small window behind her. The sun is beaming, birds chirp from branches in evergreen trees and cotton candy clouds whisper softly against a bright blue sky.

It makes me nauseous.

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