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Finally, the neighbors heard the commotion and pulled us apart.
A woman crouched down beside me and asked if I was okay.
I snapped back to myself, fumbling through my bag for medication.
But I didn't find any.
A pair of shoes stopped in front of me.
White little pills fell one by one onto the floor like beads.
I blinked and looked up. Jason looked down at me from above, holding the empty pill bottle.
His smile was cold and cruel.
"Go on. Take them."
When Jason and I engaged, my condition had nearly stabilized.
At my worst, I would shut myself in my room for days without eating, digging my nails into my flesh.
Jason felt sorry for me, took time off and brought me traveling — from warm Hawaii to icy Iceland.
He proposed in a lavender field in Provence, kneeling down and slipping the ring on my finger with a reverent side glance.
"Claire," he said.
"I'll stay with you for the rest of my life."
There was a time I clung to him like a lifeline.
When I was wobbling at the edge of an abyss, he was the hand I could grab.
When suicidal impulses and the will to live were tearing me in two, he seemed to restore balance.
He appeared at my darkest hour like a savior.
