And Then There Was Nothing

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 by Chanelle Dalton All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. First edition February 2023 Book design and front cover by KUHN Design Group | kuhndesigngroup.com Final copy edit by Mallori Sorensen at Fiction and Fable Editorial ISBN 978-0-6456998-1-4 (paperback)ISBN 978-0-6456998-0-7 (ebook) To my younger self, for all the times you felt like you couldn’t go on. “you’re not a bad person for the way you tried to kill your sadness” Anonymous Trigger Warnings Dear readers, This book contains mentions of death, suicide, depression and anxiety. There is also regular, detailed mention of self-harm in parts of the book. Please proceed with caution and take care of your mental health. Happy Reading! If you or someone you know is suffering from depression, please reach out. US: 988 Suicide and Lifeline: 988 Crisis Text Line: Text HOME TO 741741 AUS: Lifeline: 13 11 14 Suicide Call Back Service: 1300 659 467 Kids Helpline (5–25 years): 1800 55 1800 UK and Ireland: Samaritans: 116 123 Crisis Text Line: Text SHOUT to 85258 Canada: Crisis Services: 1-833-456-4566 New Zealand: Lifeline: 0800 543 354 India: Sneha India: 91 44 24640050 South Africa: Lifeline: 0861-322-322 Chapter One As I teeter over the edge, I close my eyes, waiting for the darkness to swallow me whole. I feel the cold metal press deep into my palm as I clench my fist around the small silver object. I suck in a sharp breath as it bites into my skin, the warmth of the liquid beginning to pool into my hand. I take a deep breath and open my eyes as my phone vibrates against the countertop. With a shaky breath, I unclench my fist, the small metal object clattering on the hard tiles of the bathroom floor. I watch as a few drops of my blood patter onto the ground before snatching a fistful of tissue to cover the small cut. I take a deep breath and grab my phone off the edge of the counter, stretching my arm as far as possible so I wouldn’t have to stand to reach the noisy object. Leaning back against the cupboard, I tap the screen and a text flashes up at me. Lucy: Meet at Alpha – 40 minutes! I don’t bother to unlock my phone to reply to the text. She’s obviously had a bad day and needs to let off some steam; this type of text is a regular occurrence for Lucy. I sigh as I pick myself up off the bathroom floor and shrug off my clothes from the day. I turn the faucet on and wait the thirty seconds it takes for the water to heat. Then I jump into the shower, letting the water wash over my body, the heat seeping into my tired muscles. As the water catches my hand, I wince. The water runs red. With a sigh, I hold my palm under the water and turn it away from the direct force to prevent the cut from opening up again. I gently scrub around the cut, washing away any remnants of the injury. Lathering up, I wash quickly, calculating how long it will take me to dress and make it to Alpha. If I cut across campus, it will be quicker. I jump out of the shower and wrap a towel around myself, feeling the soft material as it soaks up the water droplets. I catch my reflection in the mirror and pause to stare back at myself. I stare into my green eyes for a second and then look away. Recently, my reflection and I haven’t been getting on too well—I know I don’t look like myself. My eyes are darker than they used to be; the happy-go-lucky sparkle disappeared months ago. There are now purple shaped moons underneath each of my eyes, and my cheeks are hollower than they’ve ever been. This summer wasn’t good to me. Well, I wasn’t good to myself. I leave the bathroom and throw on a pair of black denim jeans, an old Rolling Stones t-shirt and my trusty pair of Converse. Growing up, my dad would always play the oldies station on his 1970s radio that he refused to upgrade. The sound was staticky, but he loved it. On weekends, he would have the music playing constantly, so my music taste ranges from The Beatles to Blondie to Lady Gaga. Running a brush through my dark hair, I yank at the snags then throw it up into a high ponytail. I never was one for stylish hairdos. It’s either up or down; that’s the extent of my hairdressing qualifications. I had blonde highlights for a while, but the maintenance became too much, and now they’ve faded to a dull blonde amongst a sea of brown. As I leave my room, I grab a jacket that is hanging on the back of my desk chair. It’s early September and the air has started to turn brisk. I rush out of the house and cut across the lawn, heading east towards the library, and then beyond that, past the cafés that are all closed for the day. The sun is starting to set behind the tall buildings of campus, throwing a warm orange glow over the grass and trees. Entering Alpha, I feel its warmth embrace me, pulling me into the dimly lit college bar. The booths have old wooden slats as tables and cracked leather bench seats, which I’m pretty sure have been here since the bar opened in the early ‘60s. There are a few high tables with worn brown stools and a dingy dance floor that is