Isabelle's decline hadn't been sudden—it was gradual, like the slow erosion of a shoreline, the way the waves gnaw away at the earth piece by piece. At first, it was small things: skipping meals here and there, turning down dessert, saying she wasn't hungry when she clearly was. Then it became more deliberate. She'd pick at her food, push it around her plate to make it look like she had eaten something. It was all part of her unspoken belief, the mantra that echoed endlessly in her mind: Skinny people are perfect. And Isabelle wanted—needed—to be perfect.
But her perfection came at a cost. Her clothes started hanging off her frame, her cheekbones grew sharper, and her once vibrant skin lost its glow, becoming pale and translucent. Each day she seemed to shrink a little more, vanishing before her own eyes. But Isabelle didn't see it that way. All she saw was the weight dropping, the numbers falling lower and lower, and that twisted satisfaction that came with each pound lost. It wasn't until she hit rock bottom—until the world became too much and too loud—that she made a final, desperate decision.
That night, it felt like the weight of everything—the pressure, the expectations, Billie's demands, her own exhaustion—came crashing down on her all at once. Her mind, so clouded by self-doubt and fear, found no other way out. She grabbed the bottle of pills, her fingers trembling as she unscrewed the cap. She didn't count them. She didn't pause to think. She just swallowed them, one after the other, the bitterness burning her throat as she downed them with water.
This is it, she thought. This is the end. And in that moment, she felt a strange sense of relief, like the pain would finally stop.
Angel found her sister not long after, crumpled on the floor, barely conscious. The empty bottle of pills lay beside her, a silent witness to Isabelle's quiet cry for help. Angel's heart stopped when she saw her, panic freezing her for only a second before she snapped into action. She could feel the cold grip of fear tightening around her chest, but she pushed it aside, knowing she had to save Isabelle.
"Belle!" Angel's voice trembled, but she didn't hesitate. She dragged Isabelle to the bathroom, her hands shaking as she forced her sister to gag. Again and again, she made her retch until finally, the pills came back up, bitter and half-dissolved, mixed with Isabelle's tears. Angel didn't stop, didn't let go, not until she was sure her sister had gotten rid of as much as she could.
Once the worst had passed, Angel guided her trembling sister back to her bedroom. Isabelle was weak, barely able to stand, her body drained and fragile. She was a shell of the girl she had once been. Angel gave her water and sat with her, holding her close, refusing to leave her side. She could still hear Isabelle's shallow breathing, feel the weight of her sister's fragility in her arms. "You'll be okay," Angel whispered, though the words felt hollow, her voice thick with unshed tears. "You'll be okay. I promise."
But Angel wasn't sure. Hours passed, the house growing dark and still. Angel didn't move from Isabelle's side. She couldn't. Fear gnawed at her, the fear that if she let go, if she even blinked, Isabelle would slip away. Angel clutched her sister tightly, as if holding her could keep her tethered to life. The darkness of the night weighed heavy on them both, the silence broken only by the soft sound of their breathing. Isabelle was asleep now, but Angel's mind raced with fear and guilt. She had always known something was wrong, but she hadn't known it had gotten this bad.
When the knock came at the door, it startled Angel. Her body was stiff and tired from sitting for so long, but she forced herself to move. When she opened the door, Billie stood there, his eyes dark with concern, though Angel could see the anger beneath his carefully composed face. His presence was suffocating, like a shadow looming over her.
"Is Belle home?" he asked, his voice laced with impatience despite the soft tone. There was a coldness in his eyes that made Angel shiver.
"She's in bad shape, Billie," Angel replied, crossing her arms over her chest as if trying to shield herself from the weight of his presence. "I found her after she took a whole bottle of pills. She's resting now, but... I don't think it's a good idea for you to see her."
Billie's expression flickered, but he didn't argue. He stepped inside, making his way toward Isabelle's room like he owned the place. Angel followed, her stomach twisting with unease. She hated the way Billie looked at Isabelle—the way his gaze seemed to strip her down, turning her into something less than human, something to be controlled and molded into his version of perfection.
When Billie entered the room, the sight of Isabelle lying motionless on the bed stopped him in his tracks. Her pale skin, her fragile frame—she looked so small, so broken. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, his hands trembling as he reached for her.
"Belle... what did you do?" His voice cracked, the mask of control slipping for a moment. He rested his hand on her cheek, his touch gentle, but there was something possessive in the way he held her. "This isn't what you should've done. You should've asked me for help."
His words spilled out in a rush, but Isabelle didn't hear them. Her breathing was faint, her body still fighting to stay alive. Billie's face twisted with frustration, his jaw clenched as he stared down at her. He wasn't used to being powerless. Isabelle had always been something he could control, something he could bend to his will. But now, lying there on the verge of death, she was slipping away from him.
Angel stood in the doorway, watching the scene unfold. She could see the truth in Billie's eyes—the anger, the guilt, the twisted sense of ownership he felt over her sister. He didn't love Isabelle. He loved the version of her that he had created, the one that followed his rules, wore the clothes he picked, starved herself to meet his impossible standards. And now, that version of Isabelle was dying.
As Billie sat there, his hand still resting on Isabelle's pale face, Angel's heart ached. Her sister had almost been lost—lost to the pills, lost to the darkness, lost to Billie's suffocating grip. And Angel had almost missed it. But now, seeing the way Billie hovered over her sister like a vulture, Angel knew that she couldn't let him have any more control.
Isabelle was still here, still breathing, still alive. But she was fragile, teetering on the edge of a precipice. And Angel wasn't sure how much longer she could hold her back from falling.
