TW: there are themes of suicide in this chapter, with other topics and descriptions that some readers may find distressing. Please proceed with caution.

— Chapter 48 —

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All I could see was water.

As far as I could see. Just water. Navy-black waves of velvet ocean swallowing my limbs beneath its unbeatable current. But I couldn't reach the ground. All that rested beneath me was an inky void of darkness, and I was sinking deeper and deeper.

The echoes of a gunshot rippled in my eardrums. I could hear it perfectly despite all the water... it was too loud. The very rumble of it seemed to beat around in my skull, as if fighting desperately for an escape.

But the gunshot never left. It played like a broken record in my head, and its cacophonous volume was slowly but very surely driving me insane.

It was too loud.

Just as I began to panic within the clutches of the ocean, it felt as if all the air had left my lungs at once.

My mouth opened for oxygen, but all I could feel was water filling my throat. Clawing through the current, I begged it for release, thrashing in an effort to free myself. But the clothes on my body worked against me. They were weights, dragging me down the more I tried to fight the will of the water. Like quicksand.

I fought until my limbs burned with pain, and continued to fight until they'd gone entirely numb. My body was too heavy. I was too light-headed.

Panic surged through my veins like electricity. I opened my mouth again, but no sound came out. The ocean wrapped its ghastly arms around my limbs and refused to let me go. It wailed right in my ears... it screamed. It was the screaming of a child. And it wouldn't stop.

And, as if in laughter of my suffering, the gunshot continued to rage gruesomely through my senses.

I couldn't breathe.

Everything was too loud.

It felt like I was dying.

But just as I was about to scream from the pressure of it all, the scene around me disappeared into blackness.

When my senses developed again, I felt something hard beneath me. Something ice-cold. Desperate for a breath of fresh air, I surged forward and my eyes shot open, letting in the new scene that my brain had concocted for me to re-live. Sitting up in my surroundings, air finally filled my lungs with a deep, raspy inhale.

It was a porcelain bathtub.

Old, white, and familiar, it was the bathtub I'd had in one of the many rental homes I had growing up. There was only an inch of water pooled inside it, where I was sitting in soaked clothes. Cold water, pricking my sore skin and making me shiver uncontrollably. My ears were ringing... but my arms felt like they'd been shredded. Like they'd been doused in gasoline and touched by fire.

My forearms had been cut. My wrists.

There was blood.

It was dripping down my arms onto the ivory-white of the cold porcelain. It seeped slowly down the sides of the bathtub and trickled into the water, pervading its clarity with thick, wine-colored gore.

I tried to move but to no avail. It was as if I'd been strapped down to the tub, my arms locked to the rims while the rest of my figure sat inoperative inside. No matter how much I cried out, attempting to thrash myself from my paralysis, nothing happened. I was rigid. I was panicking, my chest rising and falling in short bursts while wide eyes searched desperately for an escape from the hell I'd been placed under.

I should have been dead. Every part of the scene before me shouldn't have been one of my memories at all... I shouldn't have been alive to see it. But I was—and now it served both as a nightmare and a reminder of my fate.

Something was echoing through the house.

Banging.

Someone was banging against wood. It got closer and closer, growing louder and louder. The ringing in my ears died down with every sudden clamor in the distance, until they stopped ringing entirely.

I realized only then that the banging was at the door to the bathroom. Someone's hands were beating it down, making the ground shake and the hinges loosen.

A woman. My mom's voice.

She was screaming at the top of her lungs, hopelessly trying to break down the door. Her banging was joined by another set of fists. I tried to cry out for them, whoever was at the door, but the paralysis wouldn't let my mouth open.

Then it came again, as I tried desperately to break myself from the torture I'd been placed under. The gunshot.

My ears were too sensitive to the shattering sound. It got only grew louder with the banging, ripping through my mind and overwhelming my thoughts. It didn't even feel like a sound anymore. It was pure, unadulterated pain, slashing through my head. It was agony.

The blood seemed to burn through my skin. The air was frigid and unwelcoming—every breath felt like shards of glass were tearing through my lungs.

The banging got louder. The screaming. The gunshots.

But, just as the door finally slammed open and dark figures hurried into the room, everything went black once more.

And the only sound left was my screaming.

But I wasn't awake.

No, I was in the house. One of them, at least. In the living room, where a faded memory portrayed dark outlines of furniture and a storm raging beyond the open windows. But that wasn't why I was screaming.

There was a body in the middle of the room.

But where flesh and clothes should have been, it was only a pitch-black fabrication of smoke, taking the shape of someone's corpse. An empty void where the rest of a memory should have been. A puppet. And the only thing left that I had the capacity to remember was the thick blood dripping from the body.

It pooled around my feet and soaked my hands with the same sensations as boiling water.

I followed its trail up my body, from my clothes that were soaked with crimson, to the blood running up my torso, then to the splatters on my neck, and up to my arms. It only stopped when I finally noticed the gun in my hand.

Blood. The metal was covered with it. I had it aimed up at my head, the end of its cold barrel digging into the small section of skin behind my ear. I was ready to fire. I was ready.

But it was all wrong. This wasn't how I was going to go. This wasn't the memory. It was spoiled. Altered. Infected. It wasn't real. It was all a lie.

My hand refused to move.

I found myself digging the gun further into the side of my head, its metallic ring scorching my skin. My shallow, ragged breaths were rendered perfectly useless, as sweat dripped off the sides of my temples and my body shook uncontrollably. I could almost hear it—the bullet, softly rattling within the barrel, begging for me to release it.

Another voice echoed within my foggy senses.

Someone was singing... but their words were no more than a blur. A soft voice that was filled with such melancholy, fading in my ears.

Though, just as my finger trembled on the trigger, I felt someone's cold exhale of air at the back of my neck. All my hairs stood on end, panic ravaging through the nerves of my body at the sheer sensation of it.

My ghost had arrived.

My grim reaper.

"Do it," it whispered, draping its thin, pale arms over my shoulders. "Do it, Edge. End it... end the pain..."

My mouth jerked open as a guttural scream tore through my throat.

And I woke up screaming.

Every one of my limbs felt like they'd been jolted by an electrical current, making me shoot up on the bed and with panic coursing hungrily through my veins. It wanted me. It wanted me to submit to it, to relive the darkest memories that I'd buried away for years. They were coming for me again.

There was a profound, nauseating sickness in my stomach. I couldn't decide if I had to throw up or surrender to the panic attack and deal with the sickness later, but everything about my body felt physically ill. I could hardly function.

Not again, I thought, feeling the wave of anxiety washing over me. Don't do this to me again... please don't. I can't—I can't do this.

Images began to fade into the forefront of my mind, mercilessly taking control of my thoughts. Scenes of blood, dripping down my limbs. The feeling of someone's brains blown into my hands. Blood. Blood, pooling around my body, swallowing me alive. And the screaming. There was so much screaming. A child, a brother, a mother... I couldn't think past the discord of their voices screeching over the top of each other.

The gunshot was a humming sound in my ear, growing louder by the second. It plagued my mind and sucked the air out of my chest, leaving me to hyperventilate as I tried to make sense of my surroundings.

I hadn't given time for the numbness in my legs to fade away, so I couldn't help but stagger and stumble forward with every step I took in the trashed bedroom. There were still shards of glass somewhere on the floor, and every movement ran the risk of tripping over the shit I'd smashed to the ground. I still hadn't touched anything I'd destroyed from the last panic attack.

Don't you remember, Edge? The voice in my head taunted me. Don't you remember what happened?

I slammed my palm into the side of my head, trying to drown out its voice with the ringing I'd caused in my ear. Gripping my hair with enough force to rip some strands loose, the pain was a hopeless distraction from his voice.

What you let happen?

Growing frantic, I shook my head and begged for him to leave me alone. Stop it! Shut up! It wasn't... please...

My blurry gaze caught on movement in my room. Filled with terror, I snapped my focus up to the source, only to see my panicked state staring back at me. My reflection in the glass pane of a picture frame, outlining the deep shadows around my puffy eyes and the sweat beading down my forehead. I hated it—I hated the sight. Because it was me. Its skin was pale, and its eyes were sunken, and its hair was a mess, and any semblance of life that had once been there was drained out of its eyes. It was a corpse.

Look at yourself... you may as well be dead already, Edge... pay for what you did...

"No!" I screamed back, hunching over to let the full force of my voice leave my throat. Clutching onto the sides of my hair, I tried to block it out with the palms of my hands digging into my ears. "No! It wasn't m—I never would have let it happen!"

Oh, but you did...

I slammed my fist into the glass pane with all the energy I could find within myself. The sound of glass shattering reverberated through the cold bedroom. The force of my impact wasn't just enough to break the glass pane, but to also tear through the picture, snap through the backing of the frame, and hit the hard wall on the other side. I felt the splitting of my skin as my knuckles collided with the structure, but between the adrenaline and the panic, the pain faded away quickly. All that remained was the hole in the wall, staring me in the face.

Sweat clinging to every inch of my icy skin, I finally managed to find myself entering the bathroom. Feeling the chill of the cold tiles through the soles of my feet, I fought desperately to get air into my lungs. My raspy breaths were quick and shallow, and rapid, and useless.

It felt like I was drowning in that ocean as a kid again, letting the current of the water latch onto my clothes and drag me deeper and deeper into its unforgiving depths. I could still feel the sensations of the freezing water piercing my skin and filling my throat. It was as if I was still carrying the water in my lungs from all those years ago, blocking out and refusing to let any air into my lungs.

I tore my shirt off, almost splitting the hem entirely as I pulled the fabric over my head. Its absence was like being freed from a cage... only to step into another one.

More than anything, I refused to draw my attention to my reflection in the mirror. But the reaper knew. The reaper wanted the guilt to swallow me alive.

Look at yourself, Edge...

No. Keeping my back turned away, I gripped the front of my hair with my hands and sobbed, fearful of the shadow I'd see in my reflection. I couldn't help it anymore. The tears had pooled into my eyes, and they left trails of fire when they dripped down my cheeks.

Look at yourself! Look, Edge!

Bringing my focus to the mirror, my dizzy eyes slowly recognized the blurry figure standing across from me. Glaring at me with pursed lips and wide eyes, I watched with fear as its piercing eyes bore right through me.

It spoke nothing, but the message was clear... I was already dead. It was just waiting for me to quit my game of pretend and finish the job. I had to die. To make up for my negligence all those years ago... I had to die. Just like him. Because his death was my fault. Because I deserved it.

I wasn't ready... I wasn't ready to die. Not like this. But the voice continued to echo in my head again, and it longed for my submission. Say it, Edge... confess...

My answer came between breathy gasps, hardly legible through my lips. "No."

My gasps deepened as I saw the large number tattooed over my rib cage, on the side where my left lung would be. In a heavy, bold font, marked the skin as a reminder of how many times I'd failed.

The behind my ear.

The at my wrist.

They were all my failures.

My thoughts screamed at me again, begging for me to confess to my own negligence. To let in all the remorse, the guilt, and the agony over what I'd failed to do all those years ago.

Stumbling to the porcelain sink, I unraveled the faucet and let the water pressure fill the sink to its brim with water. And all the while, I held my palms to my ears in an effort to block out the screaming in my head. Then, as the yelling got louder, I submerged my head beneath the water.

Confess!

I cried out against its voice, letting the bubbles fan my face while I drowned out all the noise. The shock of the cold water made every hair stand on end, and though I couldn't stay submerged for long, I found the yelling in my ears finally dying down. Pulling myself out again, water dripped heavily from my soaked strands of hair, icy droplets trickling down my spine.

The silence was a relief, but I knew it was temporary. Running my quivering hands through my hair, I listened to the heaviness of my heartbeat pounding in my ears, and fought despairingly to get some air through my lips. I just couldn't stop it... the hyperventilating.

Just below the digit tattooed onto my chest, I found myself glancing at the stitches still healing in my side. There were only a few more days until Angela would come to tear them out, but the area of skin was still colored scarlet and felt raw.

And, as the voice began screaming in my head again, the stitches started to burn. It felt like being prodded with the hot end of an iron rod, the metal digging through my side and singeing my skin. It was as if I was consciously aware of the stitches inside me—like I could feel the strained threads pulling my torn muscle together in compressed knots. It made me sick to my stomach.

Confess, Edge! Everyone knows it's your fault! So confess!

The stitches continued to itch and burn until I couldn't take it anymore. Digging my nails into the flesh, I couldn't help but tug at the threads in an anguished attempt to stop the searing pain. Scratching roughly, the pain was enough to offer a small distraction.

"I'm sorry!" I cried out, "I'm sorry, it was... it was all my fault, I..."

Confess!

"I let him die!" I sobbed, clawing into the stitches. "I stood there and watched him die and I didn't—I didn't..."

Blood began to stain my fingertips as I felt the gash in my side beginning to split open once more. The threads were tugged and torn within my flesh, leaving a mess in my side while I screamed out against the pain I was feeling. But I didn't care. I deserved it. I deserved everything.

The panicked thoughts in my head repeated the atrocities back to me in a persistent mantra.

I did nothing... I sat there and did nothing... I let a man die because I wasn't strong enough to help him. He shouldn't get to die while I live... I'm worthless. I deserve to die.

"I deserve t-to die," I stammered, raspy inhales of air cutting through my speech. "I should be dead... I'm the reason he's dead... I shouldn't be alive in his place. I'm sorry."

The voice of my reaper forced my soul to feel the guilt even deeper, sighing, You did this...

At that moment, my gaze caught on the silver chain around my neck, and the light dancing off the ring that hung off it.

It gleamed brightly, swinging loosely at my chest from every tremble in my weakened body. It taunted me, the curse residing within the ring. Whether I liked it or not, fate was coming to bring me to my end. The ring was only a reminder. A reminder that I would always be trapped under its will.

My words emerged only as a whisper. "Let me go..."

Choking for air, I gripped tightly on the chain, trying to remind myself of the words Elliot had used to calm me down. That the ring wasn't cursed. That it didn't have control over me. That I'd be okay. That I deserved to be alive. But it wasn't working... not as it had before.

Maybe because I was alone. Maybe because I didn't have the strength to convince myself on my own.

Maybe because it was wrong.

Nearly thirteen years had I been caged, and never once had it crossed my mind that I had the chance of freedom. Because I didn't deserve to be free of remorse. I deserved to be condemned to hell. I needed to be punished, to atone for what happened, even though no amount of penance could ever repay what I'd done—what I'd failed to do. I deserved all of this.

I was guilty.

No amount of willpower could ever change that fact. The ring was my cross to bear, and I couldn't just wish that away. Because the grim reaper had always been right... every day I was alive was an offense to the memory of the man who should have been living himself.

"I deserve this," I forced out, wrapping my arms around my torso as the sick feeling in my stomach worsened. "I'm so sorry. I can't... it was all my fault. I'm sorry."

Reaching haphazardly for the drawer beneath the sink, I fumbled it open and reached around, desperate to find the one thing that could ease the pain.