VIII. The Girl Who Chose Her Cage
- Feb 11
- 2 min read
Updated: Apr 2
She’d been sending him messages for hours before I arrived. I watched as she paced her kitchen, the phone clenched in her hand like a lifeline. The words she typed were desperate: If you don’t come, I’ll do it.
He didn’t come.
When she finally realized he wasn’t going to, something inside her snapped. She opened a bottle of vodka and the pill container beside it, lining each capsule up like offerings. She wasn’t trying to die. I could tell from the way her hands shook. She just wanted to be stopped. That was the thing about this one: she didn’t crave freedom from her suffering. She craved witnesses.
She took the pills one by one, staring at her reflection in the dark window. I could almost hear the lie forming in her head: He’ll come when he sees what I’ve done.
An hour later, her father found her. He stood over her, shouting her name, his voice rough with fear. The fear turned fast into rage. He cursed her, grabbed her shoulders, tried to shake her awake. When her head lolled back, he went still. I saw the moment he understood she wasn’t faking this time.
The paramedics arrived soon after. He didn’t move aside for them. He stood there, still yelling over the sirens, over the men trying to save her. “I’m done, Liya! You hear me? I’m done! When you get back, all your shit’s going on the lawn! I won’t find you dead in my house!”
They lifted her onto the stretcher, her body limp, her face pale as ash. She tried to speak, to tell him it wasn’t her fault, but her lips barely moved. He was already gone anyway, slamming the door so hard the sound echoed through the street.
The ambulance lights strobed across her face as they carried her to the vehicle. She started to panic then—small, fast breaths that turned to gasps. Her chest heaved, her eyes wide and full of fear. The medic said something I couldn’t hear. Then the needle went in, and the fight drained out of her.
I turned away before the ambulance reached the end of the street. I knew how this story would play out because I've seen it before with her. Every overdose, every self-inflicted injury, every scream—each one an elaborate performance to prove she was the victim she claimed to be. She built her cage and then begged the world to pity her for living in it.
I made no report this time. It wasn't worth reporting.
The search continues.
M.
