Scarlet Rose Pettles
1009 Words
I woke up to rain tapping the window like a question I couldn't answer.
Soft. Persistent. Unrelenting.
It didn't scream. It didn't plead.
It just... asked, again and again: Are you sure?
I didn't answer.
I didn't move for a long time.
Just laid there — in the same spot I'd occupied for what felt like years, though it was only hours — staring at the c***k in my ceiling. That hairline fracture, the one that split the paint like a healing wound, had become a friend. A constant. I used to trace it with my eyes when I couldn't sleep. I always wondered if it would grow. If one day, the ceiling would just give in and fall down on me.
Funny, how it never did.
I stood slowly.
The world shifted slightly, like it knew what I was about to do and didn't want to participate.
I put on my forest green sweater.
The one that still smelled like autumn and bookstore dust and that brief afternoon sunlight on Noah's flannel.
I braided my hair with trembling fingers.
Something about neatness felt important.
Like it would make this cleaner. Softer. Easier to look at.
I left my bed unmade.
I wanted it to look like I meant to come back.
The bathroom light buzzed when I flipped it on — flickering once before settling into that harsh yellow glow that makes everyone look a little deader than they really are.
It was cold.
The kind of cold that makes your breath catch even when you're not trying to cry.
I sat on the closed toilet lid, hands folded in my lap like I was in a waiting room.
My heart wasn't racing.
That scared me.
It was supposed to feel bigger.
Louder.
More dramatic.
But death, I realized, was quiet.
Not like a scream — but like a sigh you let out when you've held it for too long.
I reached under the sink.
Pulled out the small tin box with the red ribbon tied around it — the one I kept hidden behind the old bottles of shampoo and the unopened pads from three years ago.
The ribbon slipped through my fingers.
It felt ceremonial, almost sacred.
Like unwrapping something holy.
Inside: four blades.
Each wrapped in tissues stained with memories I'd buried.
I chose the cleanest one.
Held it between my thumb and forefinger.
Turned it in the light.
So small.
So light.
It didn't look like something that could kill a person.
But then again, neither did I.
I lowered myself to the cold tile.
Back against the tub.
Blade balanced on my thigh.
Hands shaking now. Finally.
Not from fear.
From reverence.
Like I was about to do something sacred.
Like I was finally stepping into the silence that had been calling my name for years.
My eyes wandered.
To the spot on the wall where steam always lingered after a shower.
To the half-used shampoo bottle.
To the c***k in the mirror from where I once slammed my brush down too hard.
So many pieces.
So many small things that would remain when I didn't.
Then I brought the blade to my skin.
There's a moment — a breath before the first cut — where the world stops moving.
The air thickens.
The light bends.
And your body knows what's coming even if your heart doesn't.
My wrist was pale.
Soft.
Waiting.
I drew the blade across slowly.
Not like I was slicing.
But like I was writing.
Each movement deliberate.
Each cut a sentence in a letter only I would understand.
The pain bloomed sharp —
but beautiful.
Like the first note of a sad song.
Blood appeared slowly at first.
Like it, too, wasn't sure this was happening.
Then it rushed — warm, red, alive.
The tile floor drank it in without complaint.
Like it had been thirsty all this time.
I kept going.
Each cut deeper than the last.
Each breath shallower.
Each heartbeat louder in my ears, like a countdown.
My vision swam.
My hands trembled.
But I didn't stop.
Not when the dizziness came.
Not when my sweater sleeves clung to my skin like funeral cloth.
Not when the room spun and the walls leaned in like they were listening.
I smiled.
A small, broken smile.
Because it was almost over.
I thought of Noah.
Of the way he looked at me like I wasn't a burden.
Like he could see through all the filth and rot and still find something worth holding.
And I thought:
I hope he forgives me.
I hope he knows he kept me here longer than anyone ever could.
I hope he keeps living.
I tipped my head back against the porcelain tub.
My eyelids grew heavy.
My limbs slow.
The warmth pooled beneath me like a lullaby.
I whispered,
"I'm sorry."
To him.
To my brother.
To the little girl I used to be — the one who still held birthday wishes in her teeth.
Then—
a sound.
A knock.
Muffled.
"Lena?"
Too far away.
Too late.
Another knock.
Harder.
"Lena, open up."
My eyes flickered open.
Barely.
Like trying to wake inside a dream.
Then —
the voice.
"Lena. Please. Baby, it's me. Open the door."
My brother.
My brother.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
He was oceans away.
Countries away.
I wanted to move.
I swear I did.
But my body wouldn't listen.
The doorknob rattled.
My name came again, frantic now.
"Please don't do this, I'm here, I'm here, Lena—"
A sob tore through the silence.
Then:
CRACK.
The door broke open.
Boots on tile.
A scream.
Hands on my face.
His face — my brother's face — blurred by panic and tears.
He held me.
Pressed towels to my wrists.
Begged.
Begged.
"Stay with me, please, please, don't go, not like this, please—"
But I was already floating.
Not away.
Not up.
Just... sideways.
Into sleep. Into silence. Into nothing.
His voice faded.
The room faded.
Everything faded.
And then: nothing.
- Writer
