BABYGIRL 2.0: MODEL EDITION [DISCONTINUED]

DAMAGED BEYOND REPAIR II

You shivered on the cold marble of your childhood bathroom. Or so you thought. It was the middle of winter in your father's Chicago mansion. The bathroom floors were heated in the winter.

Your lips chapped and a discolored blueish color. Bottles of diazepam, alprazolam, lorazepam scattered across the floor as evidence of how you got to the position you were in.

Your body convulsed every few seconds as one of the only signs of life. Your eyes were dead but that wasn't unique to this attempt.

Your breaths were pathetically shallow. You felt your body start shutting down. It finally giving up, as you did so long ago.

Eyes clenched shut as doubled over on the floor. Your body trying to desperately save you from what your organ systems would assume to be an accident.

If only your mind could tell them it wasn't. It would save everyone some time.

Eventually, your body gave up. And you laid down on the floor with only a whimper.

Your 15-year-old conscience content with this being where all the pain stops.

You close your eyes.

Your remembrance of what occurs next making your jaw clench.

The bright light that you succumbed to becoming quickly annoying.

Your grey eyes slowly becoming viable as you blinked them open.

Dread, confusion, and disappointment all emotions you remembered distinctly but not as much as the fear.

"Y/n hey." A soft voice tried to coax. You looked to the right seeing a doctor at the side of your hospital bed. "We're gonna get that oxygen tube out don't panic. Okay?"

If you could have, you would've laughed at the fact the doctor thought you were afraid because of the tube in your throat. Or the large private hospital room you had been put in.

Your eyes were sporadic. Looking for any sign your father was here. Tears trailing down your cheek when you looked out of the hospital room window that overlooked the hallway and saw the distinct custom Armani suit.

You ignored the aches of your body and mind as you laid your head back onto the pillow. The tears only being more apparent as they rolled down your face despite the doctor trying to comfort you.

She couldn't even comfort you if she knew the real reason for your tears.

You had failed. The one time you needed to do it right you had failed and you were going to pay for that.

The tears stopped after the oxygen tube was pulled out of your throat. Giving the illusion that it was the cause of your visible distress.

"Y/n I'm Dr. Berkeley." The woman who had been comforting you while pulling the tube out of your throat introduced herself.

You looked blankly at the blinding white ceiling. Apart of you wondering why hospitals chose such an annoyingly bright interior. Maybe to spread a sense of hope, sanitation even, peace, or none of the above.

You felt your most vulnerable at a hospital. Maybe it was the gown that showed your ass or the poking and prodding that physicians were permitted to do. The nosy doctors that asked too many questions that would get the both of you in trouble if you answered them. The idea that they would save you. Just to realize that your father wasn't like a Disney villain and you had no knight in shining armor.

There was no happy ending.

"-Your body will go through heavy withdrawal symptoms over the next few days. The amount of drugs you consumed should have been fatal."