look on their face. Exactly what I don’t need. I stepped away from the door, pacing through the kitchen, putting the bottle of whiskey away, trying to think of what to do. They knocked again.

“We’re here to talk,” Alan’s muffled voice called through the door.

I held my hands to my head, wincing. This was pouring salt on the wound inflicted on my true self. Social humiliation added to my existential despair. It felt like I might get hit with another panic attack.

“Please let us in, Marcy,” Alan said, “we want to help.”

You could always kill yourself, Elliot said.

I looked to the balcony, wondering if it was high enough to kill me if I jumped.

Maybe if you went head first, Elliot said.

...

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