Page 27 of Cedarwood Cabin

I set my backpack on the kitchen table—everything is packed. I pace to the mirror, inhaling deeply before I look at myself. I decided to wear my father's flannel, his scent still clinging to the fabric.

I move closer to the mirror and take a long look at my eyes. One of them belonged to Dad, another to Mom. My dark blond hair doesn't look half bad, considering I haven't taken much care of it lately.

I pace over to the table, sling on my backpack, collect the keys from the holder, and open the door. Turning one last time to glance around the room, I want to cry, but I swallow it down.

I place my backpack in the passenger seat and get into my father's truck. Since moving here, I have rarely driven because I dread driving on the other side of the road.

I turn the radio on and Stop and Stare by OneRepublic fills the truck. I find myself relating to the lyrics as I pull out of the drive and roll down the window.

I start my drive into the forest and barely notice the town as I pass through it. The drive doesn't feel that long and I arrive quickly. I pull up to the graveled parking lot, looking around to see that no one’s here. I jump out of the truck, grabbing my backpack.

Ahead of me is the forest. The trees are bending to the wind and the air is fresh. I take a deep breath and fill my lungs. Under my boots, I feel the gravel and stones crunch with each step. After walking for a bit, I stop and feel the heavy weight of my backpack. I swing it off and let it drop to the ground. I open the main compartment and reach inside, grabbing a bottle of vodka.

I take it out, unscrew the cap, and take a full swig. The vodka burns as it goes down my throat.

Carrying the bottle of vodka, I continue walking as the path in the forest takes me deeper.

I feel my head starting to lighten up and my steps become unstable. I stop to stretch out my hand and feel the bark of a nearby tree. I look at the fallen tree log, the same log my father and I shared during our last hike. I start crying.

I stumble towards the fallen tree and fumble in my pockets for my phone. I finally pull out the phone as my hands tremble. I just want to see my parent’s faces one more time.

It slips out of my hand and the phone falls. Bouncing off a rock, I watch as the screen shatters. I bend down and pick it up, letting out a frustrated groan as I stare at my smashed phone. The world around me seems to blur. My head feels light and detached. Leaning against the fallen tree, I lower my body to the ground. I lift the vodka bottle to my lips and take another deep gulp. I close my eyes for a moment as my head pounds. I fight to stay conscious.

I unzip the pocket of my backpack and reach inside for the small bottle of untouched sleeping pills. Bringing the bottle closer to my face, I squint at the label, but I understand exactly what I am doing. This moment has been meticulously planned for the past three days. I lied to Nancy, telling her I was off to London and that I couldn’t say goodbye as it would only hurt more. I’ve thought through every detail and weighed up my options. And now, at the brink of it all, I feel a sense of peace.

I want to be with my parents.

I place the bottle of sleeping pills beside me. Reaching for the vodka bottle again, I take another sip. My hands tremble as I pick up the bottle of pills. I fumble with the childproof lid, finding myself unable to open it. This fucking lid is the barrier between me and my final act.

Frustration wells up in me and my eyes become heavy. I close them, seeking a brief respite.

My heart aches as my parents come to my mind. The vodka bottle and pills slip from my hands, rolling into the underbrush. I lean against the fallen tree and close my eyes, my head falling back with a soft thud. As consciousness slips away, a sense of peace washes over me.

I surrender to the darkness.

My body bounces up and down, rolling side from side-to-side. My head feels dizzy, like it’s spinning. I struggle to open my eyes, and when I do, my vision is blurry. Shapes and colors blend together, but I slowly realize I’m inside a vehicle being transported somewhere.

“Count again and make sure!” a deep male voice says, his tone edged with concern.

“Twenty-eight pills. All accounted for. I’ve counted twice now,” another male voice responds, sounding serious.

The realization hits me. I hadn’t managed to take any of the sleeping pills. I try to focus on the voices.

Am I dead? Am I in heaven? Am I dreaming? Who are they?

My throat burns and I can still taste the vodka. Swallowing is painful, as if I'm forcing down shards of glass. My body feels numb, my limbs heavy and unresponsive.

My mouth feels dry as I let out a groan. The sound catches one of the men’s attention.

“We’ll take her back to the cabin,” one male voice says.

“I better not regret this,” the other male responds bluntly.

My eyes flutter closed, the motion of the vehicle makes me feel nauseous.

The first voice says, calmer now, almost as if trying to reassure himself, “We’re doing the right thing.” The other male grunts in response.

I want to speak, but I feel too sick and dizzy.

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