ELAINE - PRESENT DAY

My hands shake as I put the cap over the tip of the pregnancy test. I can barely see straight; tears are already blurring my vision. Please, God, let it be negative. I don't know what I'll do otherwise.

The bathroom's neon lighting doesn't help my growing anxiety. The little pink stick works its magic while I squeeze my fingers and breathe in.

My tired expression stares back at me from the mirror. My clear blue eyes are now bloodshot and my usually voluptuous blonde hair is lifeless and dry. I used to be a beauty, but the sleepless nights, trauma and pain erased all traces of that vibrant, positive girl, leaving an empty, broken shell in her place.

He called me an angel.

The word now feels like a razorblade against my tongue. I want to cough and spit out the metal, bloody taste in my mouth, but it never leaves, no matter what I do.

My life has turned upside down in the last three weeks.

Each time I close my eyes, flashbacks and memories flood my mind. Demons have turned harder and harder to shake off.

To ease off the anxiety, I count the white tiles in the bathroom. My therapist swears it helps. The sight stings my eyes. One tile, two tiles, three tiles.

If only I hadn't gone to that wretched party. I should have stayed in my dorm room and studied for the exams, but I chose that particular day to fall apart.

Eleven tiles, twelve tiles, thirteen tiles.

I've gone through life following rules. I've done everything I should have. I scored 1590 on my SATs, took fifteen AP courses, had a GPA of 4.1 and got into Harvard. I pushed through depression, anxiety and burnout, but it wasn't enough. I've fallen apart that day. And it took only one day to ruin twenty years of ambition, determination and hard work.

Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five.

My phone rings, startling me.

Josh is calling but I'm not strong enough to answer the phone. I don't want to exist anymore. I don't want to put on a brave face, a smile and pretend everything is alright.

I'm tired, my heart won't stop pounding against my ribcage, and red and yellow dots appear in my field of vision. The phone stops ringing. My concentration is already broken.

One tile, two tiles, three tiles.

I'm afraid of the pregnancy test. The little pink stick mocks me. I swipe my hair up, sweat coating my neck. April is here, spring is blossoming, but I feel like I've been thrust into a fiery pit of hell. I'm afraid I won't make it.

I'm afraid I can't take it anymore.

I close my eyes and sit on the toilet. The world is spinning around me. With shaky fingers, I open the cupboard above the toilet and grab a bottle of Zoloft. I've had too many today.

Maybe I'll have too many tonight too.

Messages light up my phone screen. I take the device and sigh.

Elaine, answer the phone.

Something's happened.

Please, I need to talk to you.

Josh won't stop, he can't take a hint. But I'm too tired to talk.

My mother was right when she said I needed to stay on track. Harvard Med School is my goal, but it turns blurry each time I think about it. I've broken that dream irrevocably. Nothing can save me now.

The pregnancy test's instructions said to wait three minutes, but I'll wait five. I want to be sure.

Josh calls again.

"Yes?" I answer, my words merely a whisper.

"Where are you?" Josh's voice is the opposite, it's urgent, tense, loud.

"In my dorm room."

"Elaine..." He halts, I can hear the shouts around him, I can hear the police sirens. "Graham is dead."

The phone drops from my hand. The sound reverberates through the bathroom. The glass cracks. I lean my head against the wall and breathe in. Tears fall down my cheeks.

I can't take it anymore.

Josh's voice reaches from the phone on the floor, scattered and static, "Elaine? Come on, El! The police are here, they're questioning everyone."

I lift the phone, "What happened?"

"I... I don't know." Josh sounds like he's about to cry. "He- he sent a message at 2AM, but I was fucking sleeping. Goddamn, I was sleeping. Elaine, I think he killed himself."

"How?" I whisper and swallow the lump in my throat.

The pregnancy test turns even more threatening.

"He shot himself in the mouth." Josh stammers and I know this is hard for him. They were friends, after all. "The gun was in his hands."

Sweat beams form on my forehead. It's too hot in the bathroom. I need to get out, breathe in and cease existing.

"What did the police say?" I ask.

"They have to inspect the crime scene." Josh answers. "Elaine, I don't understand why he'd do such a thing. He wasn't depressed or anything. I'd know! Fuck, I'd know."

I shake my head, "You can never know."

You can never know when someone falls apart.

"The police are going to come to campus." Josh pulls himself together; his tone shifts to harsher, more determined. "They'll question everyone who was at the party yesterday."

I wipe the tears off my cheeks, "I assumed. Look, I have to go."

"Elaine-"

I hang up.

The pregnancy test is waiting for me.

Sadness overwhelms me. Graham's eyes flash in my mind. I'm afraid of what's about to happen, but there isn't place for more emotions in my heart. I'm overwhelmed.

The Zoloft bottle stares at me from the sink, the pregnancy test next to it. Will I die if I drink the entire thing?

Can Zoloft kill you?

I sure hope it can.

Notifications flash across my cracked phone screen. A deep, gnawing fear crawls up my spine. Myrtle and Sarah send pictures to our study group inbox.

Did you see this?

Elaine, check this out.

Who do you think it might be?

Oh, come on, someone wrote this as a joke.

A pretty detrimental joke, if you ask me.

A crease forms between my brows. Somewhere beyond the thin bathroom walls, I can hear people talking, exchanging information, whispering.

What is going on?

I snatch the phone and open the notifications. My heart skips a beat. A poster hangs off the Widener Library in front of the Harvard Yard.

Graham Norton is dead, the poster reads.

The Bitch and the Nerd did it.

My eyes widen, a sickly, upturning sensation spreads through my stomach. It's more than I can handle.

Quickly, I type a message into our inbox, Who do you think it refers to?

The Bitch is obviously Adora Arison. At least that's what people on TikTok are saying. Sarah answers.

Myrtle types back, Why would Adora want Graham dead? This is insane.

I thought it was a suicide?? I write back.

Someone is obviously messing around. No one will take this seriously. Sarah writes.

I put the phone back on the sink.

It's time to check the test.

Gathering courage, I turn the little pink stick around. I close my eyes and a prayer falls off my lips. I've never thought of myself as religious, but right now, I pray to God. I pray for a deus ex machina, I pray for a miracle.

Two lines stare back at me.

I stumble back. Anxiety ripples through me, the world squeezes around me and air leaves my lungs.

I'm pregnant.

And the baby's father is dead. 

***

Well... This started off a little wild. 

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