Dahlia often wonders what people will say about her after she dies. Ten, twenty, or thirty years from now, will her songs ring out over the radio on some countdown of the top hits of the 80s? Or will she become just another phantom voice destined to echo through the chaos of the world for eternity, or at least for as long as there's anyone left to listen?
It wasn't me.
I didn't know them.
I had to.
These thoughts run through her mind in the strangest moments — when she's drinking her morning coffee, or brushing her teeth, or making love to Ren. Dr. Shah calls them "intrusive thoughts." Dr. Shah says that people with depressive symptoms often have thoughts of death, or suicide, at inappropriate times. Dr. Shah says that it's appropriate to think about death when you're dying, not when you're trying to live.
"We're always dying," Dahlia often retorts.
"You never know when death is going to come for you."
"Why shouldn't I think about death?"
These comments have led to Dr. Shah increasing the dose of Dahlia's medication and suggesting she start seeing her twice a week, but standing her ground seems worth it to her in the moment. She isn't wrong, after all. Death could be lurking in any corner of the world and no one would ever know the difference. Now, for instance, might be an appropriate time to think about death.
The cold tile of the bathroom floor smacks against Dahlia's knees as she drops down to hover her head above the toilet. Not wanting to see the faraway look in her eyes that often accompanies her stolen nights out, she carefully avoids her reflection in the water as she reaches a finger to the back of her throat and empties her stomach of the rest of its contents.
Her heavily patched denim jacket lays crumpled somewhere between the sink and the door she had left ajar, wanting the music from the mixtape playing from the stereo in the living room to sneak in and keep her company while she tries to hold onto consciousness. Mixing alcohol with heroin is always a strange sensation. When she's finished with trying to focus her attention on retching into the toilet, she lets her mind drift away to dance on top of the melody.
And every time you leave me… you won't catch me breathing… without you…
Cold sweat drips down the slope of her nose, forming rivulets that frame the pretty, heart-shaped face reflecting back at her in the water. The rivulets seem to beat along to the slow rhythm of the ballad that's softly pulsating throughout her spacious penthouse apartment. The mixtape has landed on the only good song by Infinite Vendetta, Dahlia's most loathed rival in the music industry, to accompany her in this moment.
She doesn't know how long she stays there, waiting for the water to settle back into stillness. When she reaches up to flush away her sickness, she catches a shameful glimpse of the piercing red points and rough lines tracing the network of veins in her forearm. Moaning weakly, she turns her head and lets the dead weight of her arm slam back down against the rim.
An abrupt silence fills the apartment while the stereo switches to the next mixtape. Dahlia hears the heavy click of the elevator doors close as she slowly lowers herself to lay on the rug.
Suddenly, everything feels perfect. Every muscle in her body relaxes one by one, in her arms, in her legs, and down the length of her spine. This is the feeling she's been waiting for — the veil dropping. The only muscles in her body that seem to still be engaged are the ones keeping the dopey grin painted across her doll-like face.
A new song by a better band has crept in to dance around her, wrapping her up warm and tight in its soft embrace. Her eyes begin to get heavy, and she slowly blinks them open and closed, open and closed as she struggles to hold onto consciousness.
Strange scenes flutter behind her eyelids as she allows herself to look beyond the veil.
The haze of pink and purple skies floating above her. Dancing in a field of white and yellow flowers. The weight of fresh fruit in her small hands.
Then, strong hands suddenly pulling her away. The soft glow of fire growing brighter. Disembodied cries fading into the sound of flames.
Then, the chilling screams cutting through the quiet.
The body falling.
The blood.
Dahlia lets her eyes finally blink shut.
And then, darkness swallows her.