"This story contains themes of depression and suicide. Reader discretion is advised."
I sat quietly on the old wooden chair, fingers trembling as I worked the delicate necklace into the shape I needed. This wasn't just jewelry—it was my escape. My freedom.
"At last," I whispered to no one, "after all these years… I'll finally be free."
The necklace was ready. In the silence of my small apartment—gifted to me by my parents under the illusion that space would bring peace—I glanced up at the highest point in the room.
With methodical calm, I dragged the chair into position beneath it. Standing tall, I held the necklace with hands that no longer shook—only because they'd run out of fear to feel. I tied it to the fixture above.
And then, I slipped it around my neck.
My heart pounded in my chest, fear clawing at the edges of my resolve—but the decision had already been made.
I kicked the chair.
For a moment, I was flying.
Then came the rush—adrenaline flooding my veins as panic took over. My eyes darted wildly, searching for the chair that was no longer there. Tears blurred my vision, and a sharp pressure gripped my throat like a vice.
No sound. Just the thundering silence.
And after thirty seconds…
Everything went dark.