BROKEN (Herophine Fanfic)

49

JOSEPHINE

THE WORLD GOES BLACK.

Then it doesn't.

There are footsteps.

Pressure.

Warm hands on my skin.

A stranger's voice. "Miss?"

They're far away.

It's that customer service voice.

But there's something wrong with it.

Like when I know we're out of something.

"Miss?" The voice gets louder, shakier, but it's still far away. "I'm going to need you to sit up now."

Who the hell is that?

What is it?

I manage to blink my eyes open, but only for a moment.

There's a room service cart.

A hotel blazer.

A name card.

A young man's worried frown.

Fuck. The drink.

There are footsteps.

A ringing.

Panicked words.

Then he's trying and failing to pick me up.

Talking to me. Telling me to stay calm. That it's going to be okay. That help is on its way.

But I don't want help.

I just want this to be over.

I'm in and out.

Paramedics rush in. Lift me onto a stretcher.

The world goes black.

When I wake up, there's a tube down my nose and throat. I'm choking on some mixture of bile half-digested oatmeal.

It goes like that for a long time.

Then it's the blinding white of the hospital walls.

Katherine standing at my side with fear and anger in her eyes.

"Jo." She tries and fails to blink back a set of tears. "How the fuck could you do that?" Her fingers curl into the railing of the hospital bed. "Why?"

"I'm sorry." It's all I can say.

All I have the strength to say.

I'm still fuzzy.

And everything is still heavy.

Katherine  spills her heart out. She looks so small and weak.

It's not like her. She's big and full of life.

She's strong.

I did this to her.

I took something from her.

I'm still here.

I can't even get this right.

Online, every source insisted there was another route. That survivors always felt like they could fix their problems.

But I don't feel any of that.

Just more guilt.

More shame.

More hurt.

I can't even stop that.

It takes a day for me to stabilize.

Then I'm put on a seventy-two-hour hold. Given a new prescription and regulation clothes. No belts. No shoe laces. No sharp objects.

I sit through my therapy sessions silently.

There's nothing to say.

Nothing that can make this better.

Katherine  and Mom visit every day.

Dad flies down.

The three of them come together.

Mom and Dad manage to sit next to each other. We're at a tiny table in the windowless visitor's room.

My roommate is at the next table. She's here because of manic depression. Because she nearly drove a motorcycle off a cliff during her last manic episode.

She talks a lot in group therapy.

She tries to talk to me.

She means well.

But I'm not really in the mood for conversation.

"Josephine." Mom folds her arms. "I know you don't want to be here."

"She's going to be here." Katherine  copies Mom's gesture. She's still angry, but she's more understanding. At least, she's pretending.

"I can't stay here." Not for longer. This is Hero's hospital. I can't let him find me. I can't face him. "I can't stay in California."

Mom and Katherine  share a look.

Dad nods. "That is one option."

What?

"There's an inpatient treatment center about an hour out of Seattle. They have room for you. For a few months," he says.

Am I really that far gone?

I need months of treatment?

I don't want that.

But anything is better than Hero finding me.

I can't face him.

Not after this.

"Okay." It's no choice.

Anything is better than hurting him again.