Chapter 59: "The Quiet That Screams"
The towels were soaked in red, but the bleeding had finally stopped.
Jasmine sat with her back against the bathroom wall, Zariah's head resting in her lap. Her fingers trembled, her chest rose and fell in rapid gasps, but she wouldn't leave. Couldn't.
Zariah was barely conscious now — but she was breathing.
That was enough.
For now.
The clock ticked painfully loud in the hallway. It was nearly 6 p.m. Zariah's mom still hadn't come home.
Jasmine glanced at the door once, debating if she should call someone. Anyone.
But Zariah had made her promise.
No one else.
So Jasmine sat in silence, brushing hair from Zariah's face, whispering the same words again and again like a prayer she wasn't sure she believed in.
"You're okay. You're here. I'm here."
Zariah didn't answer.
But she blinked.
An hour passed.
Then another.
Zariah slowly sat up, her body weak and shaking, her eyes hollow. The blood on her hands had dried. Her lips were cracked. Her voice, when it came, was faint.
"I wasn't trying to scare you."
Jasmine looked at her, tears still shining in her eyes.
"I don't care about scared," she whispered. "I care that you're alive."
"I didn't feel it," Zariah said, her voice empty. "The cut. The pain. Nothing."
Jasmine swallowed hard. "That's not peace, Zariah. That's numb. That's your brain shutting down to protect you. But it doesn't mean you don't matter."
Zariah looked at her. "Then why do I still feel like I'm not supposed to be here?"
Jasmine reached out and took her hand. "Because your brain is lying to you. Because depression is cruel. But I know you're supposed to be here. And I'm not letting go."
Zariah didn't reply.
But she didn't pull her hand away either.
Later that night, Jasmine helped her clean the blood properly. They didn't speak much. Every now and then Zariah winced, but mostly she stared off into space.
When Jasmine pulled the sleeves of Zariah's hoodie over the new gauze, she paused.
"Do you think… you could hide the blades?" she asked gently.
Zariah didn't answer.
"Just until tomorrow," Jasmine added. "One night."
A long pause.
Then, a whisper: "Okay."
It wasn't a promise. It wasn't healing.
But it was a start.
A flicker in the dark.