The smell of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the scent of dust and old books I was used to. My eyelids fluttered, heavy and reluctant, as if weighted down by the sheer impossibility of my situation. The last thing I remembered was the tightening rope, the fading light, the desperate, silent plea for an end.

Now, a blinding white ceiling greeted me. Muffled voices buzzed around, strange faces swam into focus, and the incessant beeping of a machine echoed in the sterile room. I wasn't dead. I was here, wherever 'here' was, and a woman I'd never seen before was hugging me, calling me 'daughter.' My head throbbed, not from the recent past, but from the sheer, mind-bending absurdity of the present.

Then I saw my reflection in the glass of a framed picture on the bedside table. It wasn't my face. It was hers. Hailey Perelman. My bully. A cold dread seeped into my bones, a horror far greater than any premonition of death I had ever witnessed.