Hollow (Perfect Little Pieces) - By Ava Conway Page 0,1

to die that night. Not him. Not Bethany. I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.

I wiped my runny nose with the back of my hand and placed the picture next to the empty bottle of Vicodin. My dad had hurt his back a month ago at the Equestrian Club when his favorite horse bucked unexpectedly and tossed him in the dirt. He had said that he hated ‘those damn pills’ because they made him feel all dopey and hollow inside. When he said those words, I had thought how nice it would be to feel something—anything—besides the oppressive guilt and pain in my chest.

It won’t be long now.

A thick fog crept into my brain, making it difficult to think. So damn tired. Resolution came over me as I turned back toward the pool. A calming presence touched my heart, and for the first time in a long time, I felt almost happy. I imagined Kyle watching me from a distance, waiting for me to join him and Bethany in the great beyond. Come home, Lucy. Come home.

I looked down at the pool, knowing that if the Vicodin didn’t do the trick, the rippling water certainly would. Between the two, there was no chance of me surviving. Not this time.

I took a deep breath and leaned over the cement edging. The splash my body made as it hit the surface was the last thing I heard.

Cool water surrounded me as I started to sink. The weights I had tied around my ankles were pulling me deeper, deeper…

Suddenly I saw movement along the side of the pool above my head. My parents. When the hell did they get home? They were supposed to be out antiquing with the Andersons. They’d try to save me of course. I could almost hear my mother shouting to my father in that nasally, Long Island accent of hers.

No matter. They were too late. I could already feel the blackness coming for me. It hovered along the edge of my consciousness, waiting. I opened my arms as if I was greeting a lover. Finally, I’ll be at peace…

Chapter One

Six Months Later

I snorted with disgust as the hospital staff marched into the room. Patients, like good worker bees, moved to the metal folding chairs forming a circle in the center of the tan carpet. I tightened my arms around my legs and refused to move. If those knuckleheads thought I was going to participate in this madness, they had another thing coming.

Perhaps if I ignored them, they’d leave me alone with my pain. My position—a small bench in front of a windowsill—was in the corner of the common room and far away from the commotion. Maybe I could blend in with the paisley wallpaper and avoid all of this torment.

I turned away from the gathering crowd and glanced at the large, sterile clock on the wall. Two o’clock. I still had a good two hours before the staff came in with the afternoon medicine. Two more hours of gut-wrenching guilt before the little blue pills took it all away and left me blissfully hollow inside.

“We have something new for our Rec Therapy session today,” the head doctor said with obvious excitement. She clutched a clipboard to her chest as she paced in front of the small crowd of young people. Every part of her was purple, from the pantsuit, to the nails, to the dark smudge above her eyes. Even the tie holding her bleach-blonde hair in a bun was made of purple lace. While the color worked for some, it didn’t for her. Thanks to her small, pear-shaped body, the doctor looked more eggplant than human.

“As you know, we have received special funding to work with a group of volunteers…”

She droned on about the hospital’s good fortune and the kindness of others. I rolled my eyes. To keep me out of the headlines, my parents had donated a great sum of money to the Newton Heights Psychiatric Hospital in exchange for them not speaking with the press. The hospital insisted that they’d never do such a thing, even without the money, but my parents didn’t want to take any chances. After my three suicide attempts in the past six months, they were tired of being in the public eye. The sooner I got out of the papers, the sooner they could go back to their cocktail parties and Sunday bunches. With a little luck, I’d become nothing more than a disappointing memory, a blemish on