Chapter Three: The Edge of Darkness

The days after Vanessa’s birthday blurred into silence. Jessie had gone back to her job in the city, eyes sunken, skin pale, long sleeves hiding bruises she no longer had the strength to explain. She smiled at coworkers, replied to emails, sat in meetings. But inside, it felt like she was made of glass—thin, cold, and one crack away from shattering completely.

She hadn't told anyone what had happened after the party. She hadn’t even told Vanessa. What could she say? That her father beat her with a belt for wanting to celebrate a friend's birthday? That her mother watched it happen without blinking?

Nobody would understand.

Nobody ever had.

Then, the call came.

She saw her mother’s name flash across her phone. For a moment, Jessie hesitated. But something in her chest still craved closure, even if she knew it wouldn't come. She picked up.

“You forgot to send money this week,” her mother said sharply, skipping even a greeting.

Jessie blinked. “What?”

“You think you’re some rich city girl now? You earn because we raised you. Don’t forget that.”

“I needed that money for rent this month—”

“You think we care? Your father and I should’ve stopped feeding you years ago. A disgrace like you doesn’t deserve to live comfortably.”

Click.

No goodbye. Just silence.

And just like that, the weight returned. Crushing. Suffocating. She stared at the wall for minutes—maybe hours. She didn't even cry.

The next few days passed in a fog. Jessie went to work, came home, barely ate. Each night she stared at the ceiling, begging for something—anything—to make the ache stop. But it didn’t. It only grew heavier.

Then came Sunday.

Rain fell outside like the sky was mourning her.

Jessie sat on the floor of her small apartment, the sound of dripping water from the window corner ticking like a clock. In her trembling hands was a kitchen knife. Not sharp. Not clean. Just something she grabbed out of the drawer after hours of pacing, of whispering to herself that maybe it would all be better if it just stopped.

She clutched the knife to her chest and dropped to her knees.

Tears rolled silently down her cheeks.

“God…” her voice broke as she looked up toward the ceiling. “How long do I have to suffer?”

Her sobs grew louder. For the first time, she let herself cry the way she wanted to as a child. She cried for the girl locked inside the house like a prisoner. For the bruises no one saw. For the nights spent praying that maybe tomorrow they’d love her. For the birthdays they never celebrated. For the freedom they never gave her.

She stared at the blade.

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” she whispered. “Nobody would care if I disappeared. Maybe they’d be relieved.”

She placed the blade against her wrist.

Just a light press.

A small slice.

Blood surfaced—thin, red, a single line.

But with it came something she didn’t expect.

Fear.

Not of the blood. But of dying without ever being free.

Her hands shook harder.

“I don’t want to die,” she sobbed. “I just… I just don’t want this life. I don’t want to live this life anymore.”

The knife slipped from her hand.

It clattered to the floor, untouched again.

Jessie curled into herself, forehead pressed against the floorboards. “Please…” she whispered into the silence. “If anyone’s listening… God, universe, anyone. Give me a new life. Just one chance. I’ll fight. I’ll try. But I can’t do it alone anymore.”

The rain tapped gently against the glass. It didn’t answer her. But it didn’t leave either.

And for Jessie, that was something.

That night, for the first time in years, she didn’t pray for the pain to stop.

She prayed for strength.

She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. She didn’t have a plan. She didn’t even know if she'd feel okay when the sun came up.

But she knew one thing.

She wasn’t done yet.

Somewhere—maybe far, maybe near—there was a version of life that didn’t feel like drowning. A version where she could breathe. Laugh. Be held without fear. Maybe no one cared right now. Maybe she was alone.

But what if… what if that changed?

What if her story wasn’t meant to end here?

With her hands still shaking, Jessie got off the floor and bandaged her wrist. She made tea—burned it—but drank it anyway. She opened her window just enough to feel the cool air on her skin.

Then she sat on the edge of her bed, whispered one last prayer into the night.

“Help me create a life I don’t want to escape from.”

She didn’t know how. Or when. Or with whom.

But she had something now she didn’t before.

Hope.

Faint. Fragile.

But real.

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