Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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"Wake up!" The voice is frantic, but it sounds like it's coming from miles away. "Henry, why isn't she waking up? What's wrong with her?"
It's my mother. Why does she sound so scared? And who does she mean by her?
"I don't know." My father's voice drags like it's playing in slow motion. "Delaney. Open your eyes. Just open your eyes and let us know you're okay."
I try, but my eyelids barely lift before sliding shut again. Breathing feels wrong—shallow, weak. My tongue is dry, my throat parched. I reach for the glass on my nightstand, but my limbs are heavy, pinned down by something I can't fight. I open my mouth to say I'm fine—that I'm right here—but the words don't come. Only silence.
"Delaney, wake up!" My mother again, her voice breaking. "Oh my God. Is she dying?"
What's happening?
I catch a blur of her pacing, her face streaked with tears, hands trembling as she presses them to her mouth. My father cradles my face, his voice softer now. "Sweetie? What is it? What are you trying to say?"
I open my mouth, but all that slips out is a whimper.
"Folks, we need you to step aside so we can get to your daughter."
Suddenly paramedics flood the room, gear clattering to the floor. My comforter's ripped away, cold air rushing over me. Hands press, prod, test. A cuff tightens around my arm, a light pierces my eyes. My body barely flinches.
"What did she take?" one of them asks.
"We—we don't know," my mother stammers. "She went out last night. A nightclub, I think. Is it drugs? Did she overdose? She's been having such a hard time. Oh my God—did she try to hurt herself?"
"I need point-two milligrams of Flumazenil," the paramedic says. A band cinches tight around my arm, the sharp sting of a needle following. My arm dangles uselessly over the bed. I try to lift my head, to watch, but it feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, dropping back onto the pillow.
Minutes blur. "She's not responding," the medic barks. "Increase to point-three."
"Oh, Delaney, please wake up!" My mother's cry cuts through the haze.
"Let's get her on the gurney." Strong arms hook under me, pulling me upright. My head lolls against a shoulder as my ankles are lifted. The world tilts, then I'm flat again, straps cinching across my body.
I still don't know what's happening. My thoughts scatter and fade as the paramedics carry me down the stairs, my mother's sobs trailing after us. She keeps asking if I'm okay, if I'll be alright, her voice breaking each time.
Outside, the ambulance waits. Red and white lights strobe against my closed lids, painting everything in flashes. I slip under again, drifting, until a voice cuts through the chaos.
