Page 72 of Inevitable Endings
I pull my knees closer, trying to feel safe in the silence. My chest is tight, but hearing her voice helps, even if it’s just in my head. It’s the only thing that keeps me from sinking too far into the darkness.
“But I’m cold,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “So, so cold.”
“You don’t have to be cold,” she replies, her voice always calm, always soothing. “You just have to believe that you’re warm. You’re strong. Stronger than he thinks.”
“He says I’m doing fine,” I mumble, the words slipping out like a confession. “But I’m not. I don’t want to be down here anymore. I want to be like the other kids. I want to play, to eat, to be... safe.”
I feel a soft, invisible hand on my shoulder, her presence reassuring. “One day, Izzy,” she says. “One day, you won’t have to be afraid. One day, you won’t be alone anymore.”
I nod, even though I know she can’t see me. I want to believe her. I have to.
Chapter 33
The Weight of What’s Unsaid
Isabella
I left that basement physically, but I’m still living in it mentally.
My body is tense, and I cross my arms and legs as I sit on Dr. Monroe’s chair. Every time I come in here, I’m hesitant. She wants to ‘fix’ me, help me get better.
I feel like I’m clinging to myself and my life as if it’s something that could be yanked away from me in an instant. But it’s a horrible feeling, no matter how self-aware I have become over the past weeks. I feel powerless to this monster inside of me. I think it has always been here, inside of me. But the older I get and the more triggers I see, the bigger it becomes.
I feel it in the quiet. The overwhelming, suffocating silence that fills every corner of my mind. It’s as if there’s nothing left to say, nothing left to feel. And maybe there isn’t. Maybe I’m just... done. I used to have words for this, used to have ways to describe it. But now, everything I say feels like an echo. Hollow. Meaningless.
Depression isn’t the dramatic, heavy thing people make it out to be. It’s not always tears and screams. Sometimes, it’s just... blank. It’s the feeling of walking through a fog where nothing looks real, and you’re not sure if you’re moving or standing still.It’s a dull ache that sits behind your ribs, never quite leaving. Sometimes, I can’t even tell if I’m breathing.
I can’t remember the last time I felt “normal”. The last time I did something because I wanted to, not because I had to. Not because someone told me it was what I should do. Should. The word sticks to me like mud on my shoes. Should be better. Should be grateful. Should feel something. The ‘shoulds’—they never stop. They’re everywhere. Like a constant hum in the background, never really letting me forget that I’m not enough. Not good enough. Never good enough.
When I look in the mirror, I don’t know the woman staring back at me. She doesn’t look like me. She looks like a stranger. Tired eyes. Dull skin. A face that’s seen too much but hasn’t felt anything in too long. I try to look deeper, to find something that resembles the person I used to be. But I can’t. It’s like I’m slipping through my own fingers, and the harder I try to hold on, the faster I disappear.
What or who am I even searching for?
I can feel the weight of the past hanging over me, and it’s not the kind of thing you can just forget. It’s like a mark on my soul that refuses to fade. The abuse. The things I was told. The things I was made to believe about myself. It was always my fault, wasn’t it? Everything I did. Everything that went wrong. And it still echoes in my head, no matter how many times I try to shut it out.
There are days when I want to scream. When I want to tear myself apart for letting it all happen. But the scream never comes. Because I’ve forgotten how to be angry. The rage is buried too deep, and all that’s left is a numbness. The kind that makes you feel like a ghost in your own life. Like you’re just passing through. Watching it all from a distance, but never really part of it.
The self-loathing... it’s a constant companion. A shadow thatfollows me everywhere. It’s not something I can shake off or ignore. It’s there in the small things; the way I can’t get out of bed in the morning, the way I look at my reflection and hate what I see. It’s there when I avoid people, because I’m terrified they’ll see me as I really am. Broken. Weak. Unworthy. I’ve been told so many times that I am, that eventually, you start to believe it. And it’s not the kind of thing that can be fixed with a few kind words or a pep talk. It’s something that sinks into your bones, like the chill of a long winter that never ends. He was the first to change that.
And still, I go through the motions. I get up. I do what needs to be done. But it’s like I’m acting in my own life. Like I’m playing a part in a play I never agreed to be in. I wear the mask. I smile. I nod. I pretend. But underneath it all, there’s just a deep, yawning emptiness that refuses to be filled. It’s not that I want to die—it’s that I don’t want to live like this. But I don’t know how to change it. How to escape the prison of my own mind.
There’s no one to blame. Not really. Not anymore. The blame is mine, and the shame is mine, too. It’s like a weight I’ve been carrying for so long that I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t there. I don’t know how to ask for help. I don’t know how to admit that I’m broken. Because admitting it would make it real. It would make it too real to ignore.
And the worst part? The worst part is that even though I’m drowning, I don’t know how to stop. There’s a comfort in the pain, in the emptiness. A twisted kind of comfort in knowing that it’s mine and mine alone. That no one can take it from me. Even though it’s killing me, it’s the only thing that’s ever truly been mine.
So I keep breathing. I keep moving. I keep living. But it’s a life that’s not really mine anymore. It’s a life I’m just going through the motions of. I’m waiting. Waiting for something to change, even though I don’t know if I even want it to anymore. Becausechange would mean confronting all of this. And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
The clock on Dr. Monroe’s wall ticks methodically, a steady reminder of how slow time moves in this room. It’s too quiet here, too still, like the air is waiting for me to say something first.
I exhale, rubbing my hands over my face before finally speaking.
“My body feels off.” My voice is low, almost hesitant. I hate admitting it out loud. It feels like giving weakness a name, like allowing it to exist beyond my own thoughts.
Dr. Monroe doesn’t react, at least not in the way I expect. She just tilts her head slightly, considering me in that way she does, like she’s peeling back layers I don’t even know I have.
“Off how?” she asks.
I swallow, shifting in my seat. “I don’t know. Just… wrong.” I glance at my hands, curling and uncurling my fingers like I’m expecting them to feel different somehow. “Like something in me isn’t settling right. I feel wired all the time, like my nerves are on overdrive, but at the same time, I feel exhausted. My stomach is tight, I get these weird headaches, and sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe right. I’ve also been throwing up now and then.”
