FREE STORY WITH EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. This is *not* a Paid Story.
Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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I CAN'T BREATHE. They found Charlotte. They actually found her.
Ollie and I sit in the backseat of a cab, tapping our feet like crazy. It's probably irritating the cabbie, but I don't care. I can't breathe. I have to see Charlotte again, to see she's real.
City lights reflect in the windows as we drive. Finally, with dry, aggravated eyes, I arrive at the hospital. Ollie and I don't speak as we burst inside. We get the room number from a receptionist and rush to the elevator, but when it takes more than thirty seconds to arrive, we storm to the nearest stairwell and bolt up three flights.
I hate hospitals—they bring back the worst memories, and the older I get, the shittier they become. My first suicide attempt hangs on the walls of the psychiatric ward, along with the embarrassing memories of my last episode.
Now Charlotte's here too, and I don't know what to expect. This is a good thing, right? So why do I have such dread in my gut?
"Almost there," Ollie says. We land on the third floor. When we turn a corner, we stop.
Lucy stands outside of a door. She wears that old green and black flannel, looking just like she did on the night we met. It's like a lightning bolt to my chest, electrifying my month-long depression—ending it. She's here. And Charlotte's here, too.
Things are gonna be okay. And suddenly, I'm really glad I decided not to kill myself today.
"What's she doing here?" Ollie mutters.
I hold Lucy's eyes as I walk down the hall, Ollie trailing behind. Her eyebrows are stitched, and her hair has gotten longer, her body thinner, her bones jauntier. She hasn't been eating well. She should've stayed with me—I'd have taken care of her.
"Hey," Lucy says.
God, she has the voice of a fucking angel.
"Hi," I say, chewing my cheeks.
"Your sister's in there with your parents."
"Is she okay?" Ollie asks.
Lucy averts her eyes. "You should see for yourself."
Ollie and I exchange an uneasy glance. I don't like the sound of that, but I open the door.
Charlotte lays on the bed beneath a pure white sheet, and black makeup streams down her pale cheeks. Her hair is a ratty mess and her eyes are shut peacefully, but all I see is my baby sister, the little girl who used to curl up and sleep beside me on the couch.
Mom jumps to her feet. "Ollie, El!"
She rushes up and hugs us. Dad's just behind her and circles his arm around all three of us.
"What's going on?" Ollie asks.
"I don't get it, either," I say. "Why is Charlotte handcuffed to the bed?
