To forget.
To rest.
Tears dripped onto her wrist as she opened the bottle.
Heather Presley hadn’t slept. Not really.
She and her husband had heard the garage door open. Then the code to the alarm system beeping as someone re-armed it.
Heather had climbed out of bed and peeked out the window to see Ali’s car in the driveway. She’d waited a few minutes, figuring her daughter might need space. A bad night, maybe. She knew Ali had been off lately— quieter than usual, and harder to read.
But something had told her not to go back to sleep.
When more than fifteen minutes passed and Ali still didn’t come say hello, Heather’s gut twisted.
She slipped on a robe and padded down the hallway.
“Ali?” she called softly, tapping on her bedroom door. No answer.
The bed was made. Still untouched.
Heather checked the bathroom next.
When she opened the door, she didn’t scream.
She couldn’t.
The sound stuck in her throat.
Her baby was on the floor.
Unmoving. Pale. Her wrist resting limply across her stomach, the faded scars there like a scream she hadn’t heard soon enough.
The open pill bottle was nearby.
“Ali!” Heather dropped to her knees, hands shaking as she touched her daughter’s face. Still warm. Too warm.
Her voice cracked as she yelled for her husband. “Daniel! Call 911!”
Ali didn’t respond.
Heather gathered her into her arms, rocking gently like she did when Ali was little and had bad dreams. “Stay with me, baby. Please stay with me…”
She didn’t know what else to say.
She just held her daughter and prayed the ambulance wouldn’t be too late.
This Is Me Trying
Dylan
He hadn’t slept.
Couldn’t eat. Could barely breathe.
The team left the grill not long after the party ended in disaster. Coach Busby knew something had happened, could tell by the look on Dylan’s face when he’d finally caught up with him in the parking lot— ashen, silent, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned bone white.
But it didn’t matter.
