Chapter 2

The scream that broke the silence wasn't mine.

It was Chloe's. A sharp, theatrical shriek that had more annoyance in it than fear.

"Oh my god! What are you doing? You're getting blood on the floor!"

She rushed over, not to me, but to grab a rag from her workbench. She started frantically dabbing at the red drops near my feet, her face contorted in disgust.

"Are you insane? This is a polished concrete floor! It's going to stain!"

I just stood there, watching my blood drip, feeling the world start to tilt and go fuzzy at the edges. My arm was numb.

Chloe looked up from the floor, her eyes narrowing at my wrist. "Is that it? Seriously? You come into my gallery and try to kill yourself with a scratch? How pathetic. You're always so dramatic, Sarah. Just trying to get Mark's attention."

Her words barely registered. The floor was coming up to meet me. The last thing I heard before everything went black was the sound of her dialing her phone, her voice sharp and irritated.

"Mark, you need to get down to the gallery right now. Your wife is making a scene."

I woke up to the beeping of a machine and the sterile smell of antiseptic. A bright light was shining in my eyes. Mark was standing over me, his face a mask of fury.

"What the hell was that, Sarah?" he hissed, his voice low so the nurse at the counter couldn't hear. "Humiliating me in front of Chloe? At her big opening? Do you have any idea how that makes me look?"

I tried to speak, but my throat was dry. My wrist throbbed with a dull ache. It was wrapped in a thick white bandage.

"I..."

"Don't," he cut me off. "Just don't. I can't deal with this right now. I have to go back and help Chloe clean up your mess."

He was turning to leave when a doctor, a kind-looking woman with graying hair, walked in holding a clipboard.

"Mr. Peterson? I'm Dr. Albright. I need to speak with you about your wife."

Mark sighed, a long, suffering sound. "Look, she's fine. She's just being dramatic. She probably needs a sedative or something."

Dr. Albright's expression didn't change. She looked at Mark, then at me, her eyes full of a sympathy I hadn't seen in months.

"Your wife is not being dramatic, Mr. Peterson. The cut on her wrist required twelve stitches. But that's not my primary concern. Based on my conversation with her, and the information provided by the paramedics, it's my professional opinion that Sarah is suffering from severe postpartum depression, complicated by profound grief."

She paused, letting the words sink in. "She is a danger to herself. I am recommending an immediate 72-hour psychiatric hold for her own safety, to be followed by intensive outpatient therapy and medication."

I felt a flood of relief. Finally. Someone saw it. Someone believed me. It was real. I wasn't just making it up. I wasn't just "being dramatic."

But Mark just laughed. It was a cold, ugly sound.

"Postpartum depression? That's ridiculous. The baby's been gone for months. This is just Sarah being Sarah. She can't handle any pressure, so she pulls these stunts for attention. She doesn't need a shrink, she needs to grow up."

He looked at me, his eyes filled with contempt. "A psychiatric hold? Don't be absurd. I'm her husband. I'm taking her home."

Dr. Albright stood her ground. "Mr. Peterson, I am advising you in the strongest possible terms against that course of action. Your wife admitted to me that she wanted to die tonight. She is in a severe mental health crisis. Taking her home without professional intervention would be medically negligent."

Mark's face hardened. He leaned in close to the doctor, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "Are you calling me a negligent husband, Doctor? My wife is an emotional woman. She says things she doesn't mean. I know how to handle her. We're leaving."

He turned and glared at me, his face a storm of anger and resentment. "Get your things. We're going. You've caused enough trouble for one night."

The small flicker of hope that had ignited in my chest died out, leaving behind nothing but cold ash. He didn't believe it. He would never believe it. To him, my pain was just an inconvenience. An embarrassment. And I was completely, utterly alone with it.