REVIEWS, NO MATTER HOW CRITICAL, SHALL ALWAYS BE APPRECIATED.

"What do you want to do with this one?" a sharp voiced asked.

The sound of shifting paper. "She's a suicidal. Stole somebody's sleeping pills but didn't take enough to completely overdose."

"Ah. So you want to us to put her in the psych ward then?"

The doctor tapped his pen against the writing board. "Yeah, just put her under surveillance. Oh, and get somebody to investigate the hotel room she was staying at. We need some sort of ID so we can contact her insurance."

The male nurse patted the doctor's back sympathetically. "Insurance will only pay for a week of a case like this." He paused then hurriedly shuffled out of the room.

Dr. Sovinski's brow creased with worried lines. He hated taking care of patients in this state. He's never sure if suicidals' existences are pitiful enough to deserve death, or if they're good people just on the wrong tracks. The weakest and nicest people on the planet are usually the one's wanting death most, he thought sadly. With a sigh in his throat he placed the patient's clipboard on the end of the bed. Right now, the only part of the clipboard filled out is "suicidal."

An IV dripped clean blood into her arm. She winced and squinted at the stupid machine, still adjusting to the blinding white lights of the hospital halls. What is this?

She blinked behind brown lashes as the memories tried to flood back.

Nothing.

What is this place?

"Why. Aren't. I. Dead." The words slipped out of her mouth subconsciously, the meaning not being fully grasped until moments after it was spoken. She was supposed to die! Death was supposed to be peaceful and blank, but . . .

It is blank.

Her slender, shaky fingers scratched at the face she could not remember. What body is this? Why isn't she dead? Where are the dreams? What are these white walls?

She shifted to one end of the push mattress, only to be tugged by IV needle jammed in her right arm. What's in her arm?

"What . . . what?" She stuttered. In her memory, only the desperate hope for death and peace could be remembered. All other memory failed her. She lifted the arm not attached to the IV and examined her veins like there was poison running through them. And there was in her mind. The poison of life.

There was something horrible she'd want to quiet . . .

No! She should be dead! "Dead, dead, dead . . ." If she keeps thinking of the air rushing through her lungs instead of her lack of memory then maybe she won't remember anything. She was still very, very aware of the feeling of relief from the loss of memory. Instinct told her memory was bad.

Some face tore at the edge of her mind, but she ignored it and replaced the image with that of her coursing veins.

"She's hyperventilating! Her heart rate is rising! Doctor!" Some nurse called from inside the small right room. Her voice was barely heard to the petite girl lying in the hospital bed.

In her mind, a million nails were stabbing at her veins. "STOP IT!" She madly whacked her wrists against the metal bed frame. Her yells were wild gibberish, and a chorus of "restrain her"s sounded from all around her.

One thought kept looping through her. Why isn't she dead?

The corners of her vision blurred then darkened, slowly closing in on the world until all was black.

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A trail of crimson blood lay dried along the floor. One box cutter was clumsily dropped in the stained white sink. The whole apartment looked like a tornado had run through it, and most of the light switches were torn off the walls.

Benson hobbled about the disaster zone, clumsily tripping over assorted pots and silverware. He grimaced when he discovered the blood and box cutter in the sink. She'd left in hurry. She'd probably still been bleeding, too. He did not sigh or frown at the mess. He grabbed anything in his sight that had already been knocked over and hurled the items into the cupboards. He yelled harshly at nothing. Spit rolled down his lip, and a bit of blood was already blossoming over his knuckles.

This was all his fault. He shouldn't have pushed for sex. Benson shouldn't have treated her like every other girl he's dated. Mellony was different. She was fragile and small, but tried so hard to keep a tough exterior. She was adorable and excruciatingly vulnerable. She would always try to pretend to be mean, but at times she'd let her sweet side slip.

Mellony had been the love of his life. Sure, they were only in high school and had only met a few months ago, but Benson knew immediately that the girl was one of a kind. There would never be a replica like her, and he loved her dearly.

He became comfortable with her and began sharing his most hidden thoughts with her. Like his thoughts that were fueled by hormones. He grimaced and thrust his unhurt hand into a tile surface. It made him wince, but the pain was good. He deserves pain for being so oblivious.

He'd known what she was planning as soon as his mom had begun complaining about her lost sleeping pills. Mellony had a history of trying to overdose, not to mention she was an avid cutter. He'd rushed home as soon as he could, but it was already too late. She'd snuck off to some hiding place he doesn't know the location of. He's never known where, but he knows she does drugs in the same place every time. It's just the type of person she is. She doesn't like change, even with something so small and trivial.

Benson sucked in a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. He has to find out where she is. There's no time to waste here, she's probably already dead.

His eyes widened at his thought. He quickly rushed out of the apartment and was off to find one of Mellony's closest friends. Her drug-friendly friend.