Broken Loop

Chapter Twenty‐Five: Loop #11 - Overdose Craft

The apartment was silent when Aiden Hartman returned from his evening shift at the café. The hallway light was off, the glow from the living room muted through the cracked-open door. He dropped his keys on the console and exhaled, the day's fatigue pulling at his bones. Jade wouldn't be home for another hour—she'd mentioned meeting Professor Ramirez for one last editing session. So why did the air feel so heavy?

He padded into the living room, expecting to find her journal or headphones discarded on the sofa. Instead, a half‐empty bottle of bourbon stood on the coffee table beside two empty pill vials. His heart froze.

He dropped onto the edge of the sofa, eyes scanning the scene. Fragments of shattered glass—or was that plastic?—glinted beneath the lamp's faint glow. A paperback lay open to a random page, its spine broken. A single sentence loomed: "It's easier to vanish than to carry this anymore."

Aiden's pulse rocketed. He leapt to his feet, stumbling as adrenaline flooded his limbs. "Jade!"

Her name was a plea and a warning. He dashed toward the bedroom, adrenaline fizzing like electricity. The door cracked—just enough to reveal a dark form collapsed on the floor.

His stomach lurched. He flung the door open.

Jade lay on her side, one arm tucked beneath her, hair splayed across the hardwood like a comet's tail. A sticky pool of bourbon pooled at her temple, mixing with the scattered pills—antidepressants, the leftover sleeping pills from months ago, a handful of painkillers she'd once tried for headaches.

He closed the distance in two strides, knelt beside her, and pressed a hand to her cheek. Her skin was cool. Her breath—if she breathed at all—was a whisper.

"Jade," he rasped, voice cracking. "Jade, wake up!"

He shook her shoulder, heart pounding against his ribs. She stirred, mouth opening in a silent gasp, then stillness.

He leaned in, inhaling her scent—her shampoo, the bourbon's burn, something bruised beneath it all. He pressed his ear to her mouth—no breath. He checked her neck: no pulse.

Panic eclipsed him. He scooped her into his arms—terrified she might slip through his grasp. He set her on the nearby bed and cradled her head against the pillow. His voice broke as he dialed 911.

"Please—my sister—she's unconscious. Overdose... pills and alcohol. Apartment 4B, 212 Marsden Street. Send help."

His words tumbled out jagged, but the operator guided him through each second: "Lay her on her back, tilt her head to one side..." He listened, obeyed.

He knelt beside her, clearing her airway with trembling fingers. He held her wrist, counting pulses: nothing. His own heart thundered.

"Help is on the way," he whispered, though the emptiness beneath his words threatened to swallow him whole.

• • •

Sirens punctured the night four minutes later, lights bleeding blue through the blinds. Paramedics burst into the apartment—two EMTs and an officer. The first EMT knelt beside his sister, pressing gloved hands to her ribs. Aiden hovered, winded.

"Move back," the EMT said gently but firmly. "Give us room."

He stumbled away, leaning against the console. His gaze locked on Jade's still form—mouth partway open, eyelashes dusted with bourbon.

They administered Narcan, ventilated her lungs, and within moments her chest jerked. She coughed, a wet rasp that sounded like hope.

Aiden wept silent tears as he watched them work, his fists clenched around his shirt. He pressed his face into the palms of his hands, knees knocking. He had failed her.