Desperate matters call but common sense gets in the way.
She could only wonder what everyone had thought of her, said about her. She was sure it was nothing good or.. well, positive in any shape or form. Most of them were probably sympathetic thoughts.
Imogen wasn't sure she wanted their sympathy... after all, she had done so many bad things in her life. Not by choice, but by command of her father. Did she really deserve the hospitality she was being given? The sympathy, the empathy?
She knew she didn't, and that's why, thinking back to what she promised herself, Imogen, slowly but surely, arose from the comforting darkness, a little less than a shell of what she once was. Her thoughts immediately went to her dad, thinking about what ghastly crimes she did that month, they week, that year. But no more.
A small smile of relief crept onto her face as Imogen fluttered her eyelids open and looked around the room. Someone, in the gloomiest corner, sat hunched over in a chair. Imogen presumed they were sleeping, dangled her legs out of the bed and looked to the clock. 3:01am. Surely that meant everyone was asleep? Still, people were unpredictable.
Either way, as Imogen cracked open the door, expecting a beam of light to flood into the room like in the movies, she was slightly disappointed when nothing happened. She crept down the stairs and into the kitchen slowly, carefully, sure to not let her feet make any noise.
Her hand gently curled around the draw she saw Lyndsey get some spoons out of hours earlier. Then, as she tenderly tugged it open, she was greeted with the familliar glint of cutlary. It sort of warmed her heart thinking about what she was going to do with a knife.. the sharpest one there.
She pulled it out.
For a second, Imogen was worried about her sanity; if it was okay to be happy about committing suicide. She presumed it wasn't healthy - but what about her life was? Her life was nothing but trauma and drama, and surely the amount of trauma she had been through wasn't healthy. So, maybe it was okay for her thoughts to be messed up.
But then, without a moments notice, Imogen held the knife to her pale wrist. She was sure this was how it was to end, how she wanted it to end. It was the only way. She'd be better afterwards; she wouldn't feel, she wouldn't breathe and she wouldn't live.
The dim glint of the knife under the faded moon to any normal person would seem threatening, but Imogen wasn't thinking straight at that moment, and as she pressed it further to her pale skin, she smiled. It comforted her in a strange way. Especially the idea of death; how close it was...
Then, just as Imogen was going to jerk the large knife, someone placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "Don't," they said. Their voice was slightly shakey but strong, and a hand snaked around Imogen to the knife. "Please."
Imogen's grip immediately hardened. "Why?" she asked coldly, not knowing or caring who the person was. "Why shouldn't I?"
"I know how bad it is, but you don't have to do this, it doesn't have to end this way. You have so much to live for." Their hand clutched Imogen's and the knife at the same time.
"I have nothing to live for," Imogen spat. "i've caused nothing but pain to other people. This is just my karma. I need to escape this - I didn't want to do any of those things but I did, because I wanted to live!"
"Then," they started softly, hand still curled around the knife, just over Imogen's. "Why, if you hurt and caused people pain -and I wont ask how- because you wanted to live, why throw that away now? I know I don't know anything about why your life was threatened, or what you had to do.. but if you wanted to live then, so much that you caused people pain, why throw that away? It would mean you made those people suffer for no reason. Why throw it away, Imogen?"
Imogen's body froze and stiffened, and she blinked once, her grip loosening slightly.
The person, a man judging by their voice, sensed this, and increased their grip of the knife. "Let go," they mumbled.
Imogen, only with slight hesitation, did that. Not sobbing, not wailing, not speaking. She simply let her hand fall limp as she stood transfixed, empty.
Then, letting the person put the knife back in the draw, Imogen left without another word, cuddled back into her bed and buried her face in her pillow.
Before letting her tears fall to the covers, her eyes swell and her heart break, Imogen took note that the person in the corner was gone.
And then, Imogen cried for what seemed the hundredth time that day.
Silently, desperately, shakily.