The Ninth Call: Not His Substitute

Nine missed calls.

Thats what lit up my screen the night Margot killed herself.

I never picked up.

Now, the verdict is unanimous: I am the murderer.

Even Roman thinks so.

The man who once anchored me through the suffocating waves of my depression recently shoved me onto the hardwood floor, his eyes filled with a terrifying, unfamiliar disgust.

His voice, cold as ice, delivered the sentence: "You don't deserve to be happy."

But the night my darkness returnedthe night I decided to pay my debt, a life for a lifethey finally realized their mistake.

Too bad it was too late.

Chapter 1

I stepped out of the clinic into a gray, spitting mist.

Dr. Rachel, a woman whose face was etched with professional kindness, had stared at the test results on her screen for a long moment. She tapped her fingers against the mahogany desk, a rhythmic, thoughtful sound.

"Hazel," she said, her voice soft but heavy. "Given the current levels, I strongly recommend inpatient care."

My lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Silence was my only defense.

She didn't push. She just sighed, the sound of a woman used to stubborn patients. "If you're not ready for the ward, that's fine. I'll prescribe more antidepressants. But the root of this" She paused, her eyes searching mine. "Its still your family. You need to talk to Paula. Really talk to her."

Pain bloomed in my palm. My fingernails dug into the soft flesh, leaving angry red crescents. A grounding mechanism.

As I stood to leave, Dr. Rachel looked at me and offered an objective evaluation. "At least you have a solid support system," she said, offering a sympathetic smile. "You have a wonderful partner. Love and presence are the best medicine."

I forced a nod and walked out.

Dr. Rachel didn't know.

That "wonderful partner" didn't love me anymore.

Roman and I had been together for a year. The diamond on my finger was only three months old.

Two years ago, I missed Margots calls. She jumped.

Paula, my mother, branded me a killer. She threw vases, books, anything she could grab, screaming that I should have been the one in the casket.

That was the year the depression swallowed me whole. That was also the year I met Roman.

I had been crumbling outside a 7-Eleven, sobbing uncontrollably, a spectacle for strangers. Passersby stared, judging the crazy girl.

Only Roman stopped.

He tilted his umbrella over me, shielding me from the downpour, and handed me a tissue. His smile was warm, safe.

"A face this beautiful shouldn't be ruined by tears," hed said.

Standing in the rain now, I dialed Roman. Once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

Just the mechanical, robotic voice of his voicemail. It grated on my nerves, a loop of rejection. I hung up and hailed a cab.

When I got home, the front door was ajar.

Panic spiked in my chest. Roman?

I wanted to call his name, but the sound died in my throat.

The living room was a war zone. Furniture overturned. Cushions gutted. Glass sparkling dangerously on the floor.

I froze, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the emergency dial. Then, movement on the stairs caught my eye.

Paula.

It had been months since Id seen her. She stood on the landing, clutching a framed photo like a weapon. Her eyes locked onto mine. Recognition flashed, followed instantly by a surge of pure, unadulterated rage.

She raised her arm and hurled the frame at me.

It smashed at my feet. Shards of glass exploded outward, slicing the air.

Before I could breathe, she was on me.

She lunged, her fingers tangling painfully in my hair, yanking my head back. Her fists rained down on my shoulders, my chest, heavy and frantic.

"You did this!" she screamed.

Chapter 2

Her voice was a garbled loop of venom. Slurred. Hysterical.

"You think you can get married?"

Thud. A fist to my shoulder.

"Do you deserve it?"

Smack.

"You killed Margot! You should be burning in hell! You don't deserve to breathe!"

"Why" Her voice cracked, a jagged shard of sound. "Why wasn't it you in that box?"

I didn't fight back. I couldn't.

I curled into a ball on the floor, shielding my head with my arms, letting her pummel the guilt deeper into my bones. Every word was a serrated blade twisting in my chest.

The darkness threatened to pull me under. I pressed my hands over my ears, squeezing my eyes shut. My lips moved, a silent, desperate mantra.

I can't die.

I promised her.

Time dissolved. I didn't know how long the beating lasted. Eventually, the noise stopped.

Strong arms pulled Paula off me. The neighbor.

"Honey? Are you okay?" A womans voice. Concerned. Distant.

The question snapped me back to reality. The adrenaline crashed, leaving my hands trembling violently.

My meds.

I scrambled for my purse, dumping the contents onto the floor. Lipstick. Keys. Wallet.

No bottle.

A pair of polished black Oxfords stepped into my blurred vision.

Click. Click. Click.

Tiny white tablets rained down on the hardwood floor. They bounced and scattered like broken pearls.

I froze. Slowly, I looked up.

Roman towered over me.

In his hand, he held my prescription bottle. Upside down. Empty.

His face wasn't the face of the man who loved me. It was a mask of cold, unadulterated malice. His lips curled into a sneer.

"Eat," he said.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

When Roman and I got engaged, I was stabilizing.

There was a time when the darkness was absolute. I would lock myself in my room, starving, dragging my nails across my skin until I felt something other than numbness.

Roman had hated seeing me in pain. He took time off work. He dragged me out of the shadows.

We went from the humid heat of Hawaii to the glacial silence of Iceland.

In Provence, surrounded by endless fields of lavender, he dropped to one knee. The look on his face had been so devout, so holy.

"Hazel," he had whispered. "I will be with you. Forever."

He was my anchor.

When I teetered on the edge of the abyss, caught between the urge to end it and the instinct to survive, he was the gravity that held me down. He walked into my gray world and painted it in color.

My savior. My god.

I reached out and grabbed a pill off the dirty floor.

I swallowed it dry. It scraped my throat, bitter and chalky.

Roman watched, unimpressed. He let the empty plastic bottle drop. It hit the floor with a hollow clatter and rolled away.

I crawled after it. I scrambled to gather the scattered pills, putting them back into the bottle one by one. My movements were jerky, pathetic.

The neighbors had quietly retreated, closing the door out of politeness to save us some face.

Roman didn't help. He just stood there, staring down at me with eyes devoid of warmth.

"I didn't know you were this disgusting," he spat. The words were quiet, lethal.

"Hazel. You killed your sister. You brought this on yourself. You deserve to suffer."

I didn't look up.

I just kept crawling, picking up the pills.

One by one.

Chapter 3

I figured out exactly when Roman found out.

I had never told him about the darkness in my past. I never mentioned Margot.

But after the engagement ring slid onto my finger, the pressure started. He kept dropping hints. Lets visit your parents. I want to meet the family.

He didn't know that my relationship with my mother wasn't just strained; it was a wasteland. The childhood neglect was bad enough, but after Margot well, Paula hated the air I breathed.

Then, the nagging stopped abruptly.

A week ago, Roman went dark. Ghosted me for twenty-four hours.

When he finally came back, he was different. The warmth was gone, replaced by a clinical detachment.

Three days ago, he brought Skylar home.

Im a light sleeper. A noise downstairs jolted me awake. I assumed he was back late from the office, grinding away at some merger.

I went down to ask if he was hungry.

The scene in the living room nailed my feet to the floorboards.

Roman was on the couch. Skylar was straddling him.

Her long hair cascaded over his chest like a dark curtain. She leaned down, her lips brushing his jawline.

Roman didnt push her away. He didn't flinch. He didn't freeze.

He let her leave a perfect, crimson lipstick mark on his face. Then, his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

Skylar let out a soft, theatrical gasp. A sound like a purring cat.

"Roman, stop," she cooed, her voice dripping with mock scandal. "Your girlfriend is right upstairs."

Her tone wasn't fearful. It was triumphant.

The sharp tang of whiskey hit my nose. It was strong. Thick enough to choke on. For a split second, I wanted to blame the alcohol. Hes drunk. He doesnt know.

Then he looked up.

His eyes locked onto mine. There was no haze of intoxication. Just clear, razor-sharp contempt. It felt like a physical blow.

"Ignore her," he said to Skylar. His voice was flat. Bored. "Shes worthless."

"If it weren't for that face"

The rest of the sentence dissolved into a high-pitched ring in my ears.

My body reacted before my brain could process the betrayal.

Acid surged.

A burning sensation clawed its way up my throat. My stomach clenched violently. I stumbled backward, turning and sprinting for the bathroom.

I collapsed in front of the toilet, gripping the cold porcelain until my knuckles turned white.

I heaved. Nothing came up but bile and agony.

Tears blurred my vision, hot and stinging. And in that moment, shivering on the bathroom floor, my mind cruelly replayed the first thing he ever said to me.

Don't cry.

A face this beautiful shouldn't be ruined by tears.

When my stomach finally stopped convulsing, I slumped against the wall.

Roman was leaning against the doorframe. He watched me like I was a specimen in a jar.

"Can't handle a little reality?" he asked. "But surely" He tilted his head, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Youre the disgusting one here, aren't you?"

I don't remember him leaving.

By the time I finished crawling around the floor, collecting the last of the scattered white pills into the orange bottle, the house was silent.

I sat in the wreckage of the living room.

My eyes landed on the picture frame Paula had smashed earlier. It lay face up a few feet away.

I reached for it.

A jagged shard of glass sliced into my palm. I didn't flinch. A drop of bright red blood dripped onto the photograph, landing right on my cheek.

It was a candid shot from a trip to an Old Town square.

Roman was walking toward me, eyes crinkled in a laugh, holding two candied apples. In the background, I was turned away, looking up at a string of glowing lanterns. The crowd was a blur.

The photographer had focused perfectly on the man buying sweets for his girl, and the girl mesmerized by the lights.

When the street vendor gave us the printed photo, she had smiled sweetly. "May you two last forever."

I remembered Roman gripping my hand that night. Fingers interlaced. A solid lock.

He had whispered into my ear, his breath warm against my neck.

"Get better soon, Hazel. Were going to last forever."

Chapter 4

I wanted to get better. God, I wanted it so bad.

I fought for it. I swallowed the bitter pills. I sat in the chair and did the work.

Before Roman, I was just surviving.

When the silence got too loud, I used a blade. One slice after another. Physical pain was a relief. A distraction from the rotting inside.

Stay alive. That was the only rule.

Don't break the promise to Margot.

Then Roman walked in. I started seeing Dr. Rachel. I was one step away from the light. I reached for the hand that saved me.

But this time, it didn't pull me up.

It shoved me back into the pit.

Roman became a ghost. He stopped coming home.

My phone became a grenade. Paula detonated it daily.

Buzz.

"Animal."

Buzz.

"Whore."

Buzz.

"Why are you still breathing when she isn't?"

I stopped reading them.

I was a walking bomb myself. One wrong wire, one triggered memory, and I would explode.

I hired help to clean the wreckage in the living room.

Martha, the cleaner, held up a pile of shattered building blocks. The pieces were jagged, impossible to fix. "Trash?" she asked.

I stared at the ruin. It looked like my life.

I shook my head. "Keep it."

I needed air.

Sloane was in town on business. My lifeline.

We met at an upscale steakhouse. Low lights. Soft jazz piano. The clinking of expensive silverware.

Sloane saw me and immediately pulled me into a hug. She pulled back, her eyes scanning me with concern.

"You're vanishing, Haze," she said, her brow furrowed. "I thought Roman was fattening you up. You look fragile."

I stayed silent.

She didn't miss a beat. "Is he treating you okay?"

"Let's not talk about him," I said, forcing a smile. "I see you once a year. Tell me about the new job."

The food arrived. Sloane talked. She gossiped about coworkers, making wild gestures with her fork. I laughed. A real, genuine laugh.

I speared a piece of beef, lifting it to my mouth.

Then I froze.

The smile died on my face.

It was a romantic restaurant. Candlelight. Intimacy. Perfect for lovers.

Just not for Roman and Skylar.

They walked in.

He pulled out her chair. A perfect gentleman.

She smiled up at him, a predator thanking her provider.

On the table, a vase of red roses bled color into the dim room.

The diamond on my own hand caught the chandelier's light. It glared back at me. A sharp, blinding flash that stung my eyes.

I stared too long.

Roman sensed it. He looked up.

His eyes found mine.

No panic. No guilt. No hesitation.

Just a smile that lowered the room's temperature by ten degrees.

He didn't look away. Instead, he reached out. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair behind Skylars ear.

Intimate. Possessive. Deliberate.

Sloane followed my gaze. She saw the hand on the hair. The smile.

Her jaw tightened. She grabbed her wine glass, her knuckles turning white around the stem. She started to rise, fury radiating off her in waves.

"Don't," I whispered.

Chapter 5

I grabbed her wrist. My grip was weak, clammy.

"Don't," I whispered. It came out as a beg.

Sloane looked down at me. She saw the tears swimming in my eyes. She held my gaze for a long, tense moment, the muscles in her arm bunched tight.

Then, she exhaled. She sat back down.

I fumbled with my bag, my hands shaking so violently I could barely find the zipper. I found the orange bottle. I couldn't get the cap off.

My stomach lurched. A spasm of pain rolled through my gut, twisting like a wet rag.

I dry swallowed the pill. I closed my eyes, counting the seconds until the suffocating weight on my chest lightened.

But the appetite was gone.

We stood up. Sloane grabbed her purse. I kept my head down.

We had to pass their table to leave.

Sloane didn't walk past.

As we neared them, she couldn't suppress her anger. Her designer bag slammed into the wine glass as she stormed past.

Crash.

Crimson liquid splashed across the white tablecloth and dripped onto the floor.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Skylar stood up, her face twisting into a scowl. She opened her mouth to scream, but Sloane cut her off.

"Oops," Sloane said. Flat. Unapologetic. Pure ice.

Skylar prepared to launch a triad, but then she saw me standing behind Sloane. The anger vanished instantly.

A sugary, toxic smile plastered onto her face. "Oh," she cooed. "This couple's menu is actually delicious. You should try it."

Roman laughed. A low, cruel sound that vibrated in my bones. "I'll bring you here often, then."

I couldn't look at them. My eyes were glued to the edge of the table. To the dark red puddle.

It looked like blood.

Sloane saw the color drain from my face. She realized her mistake. She stepped in front of me, blocking the view, creating a wall between me and the trigger.

She grabbed my arm. "Let's go."

I sat in the passenger seat.

My fingers fumbled again. The pill bottle slipped from my sweat-slicked hand and hit the floor mat with a hollow thud.

I didn't reach for it.

Instead, I made a fist. I drove my fingernails into my palm until I felt the skin break.

Pain was clarity. It was the only thing keeping the black water from filling my lungs. It was the only way to stay awake in the nightmare.

"Hazel."

Silence.

"Hazel!"

Sloanes voice cracked through the fog. It was loud. Desperate.

I blinked. I was back.

"Why haven't you left him?" she demanded, eyes on the road. "It's just an engagement. You can walk away."

I didn't answer.

"I know he was there for you before," she continued, her voice rising. "I know he helped you heal. I was grateful for that. I really was."

She glanced at me. "But he is cheating on you, Hazel."

The streetlights strobed across her face, highlighting the fury and the pity.

"Leave him."

The car filled with a dead, heavy silence. I stared out the window at the blurring city.

Finally, my voice worked. It sounded foreign to my own ears. "No."

Screech.

The car slammed to a halt at the curb. The seatbelt locked against my chest, knocking the wind out of me.

Sloane slammed her fist against the steering wheel. "God damn it!"

She whipped her head around to scream at me, her mouth open, but the words died in her throat when she actually looked at me.

She stared. Her chest heaved.

The anger drained out, replaced by confusion. And fear.

"What is it?" she whispered. "What the hell is keeping you there?"

Chapter 6

What is keeping me here?

I squeezed my eyes shut. Behind my lids, the red wine from the restaurant was still dripping. Drip. Drip. Endless.

But it wasn't the wine that trapped me.

It was the memory of the hand that used to pull me out of the fire. The hand that was now pushing me back in.

It was the crushing weight of a sin from two years ago.

No Margot.

No home.

I opened my eyes. They burned like fire, dry and gritty. Not a single tear fell. I must have looked derangedred-eyed, trembling, a wounded animal cornered in a trap.

"Sloane," I whispered. The name scraped against my raw throat. "I don't have a home anymore."

Sloane hugged me tight before she left. "Take your meds, Hazel. Please."

I nodded.

She walked out. The door clicked shut.

Click.

That sound severed the last thread of my control. The monster inside clawed its way out.

I tore through the apartment Martha had just cleaned. I swept a vase off the counter. Shatter. I flipped a chair.

It wasn't enough. The pressure in my chest was expanding, threatening to crack my ribs.

The dark voice screamed in my ear. Do it.

I grabbed a paring knife from the fruit bowl. The metal was cold against the feverish skin of my wrist. I pressed down. Just enough to dent the skin.

Then, the front door swung open.

Roman stood there.

He froze, his hand suspended in the air. His eyes dropped to the knife against my wrist.

In the past, he would have lunged. He would have been terrified, begging me to drop it, his face pale with fear.

Now?

He just stood there. A spectator at a boring play.

The silence was absolute, broken only by the clock on the wall.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Do it," he said.

He looked me in the eye, a cold smirk playing on his lips. "Slice it open."

I didn't move. I couldn't. I was a puppet with cut strings, staring at him.

He scoffed. A noise of pure disgust. His eyes narrowed.

"You don't have the guts. This is just a show. You just want pity."

He tilted his head, his face a mask of mock curiosity. "Why are you still here? Why wasn't it you in the ground?"

His tone was innocent. Cruel.

My entire body vibrated. It took every ounce of strength I had left to keep standing.

"Hazel."

He enunciated every word, driving them in like nails.

"You. Don't. Dare. To. Die."

He was right.

Caught between the numbness of the medication and the promise I made to a ghost, I was trapped.

Purgatory.

Unable to die. Unable to live.

My fingers went numb. The knife slipped.

Clang.

It hit the floorboards, landing inches from my toes.

Despair wrapped around my throat like a strangler fig, squeezing the air out of me. I sank to the floor, curled into myself, and finally, the scream tore its way out of my throat.

Chapter 7

In the past, whenever the tears fell, Roman was my shelter.

He would pull me into his chest. The cold, distant man would melt, his voice dropping an octave to soothe me.

Just like her. Just like that person.

She always smelled of gardenias. She would use a handkerchief to dab away my tears, rocking me gently.

"Don't cry, little moon. Crying ruins the pretty."

It was a clich. A tired line. But I listened to it for ten years. I never got tired of it.

Now, that silence is absolute. There is no one left in this world to hold me.

I sank deeper into the quicksand.

My medication routine collapsed. Some days, I forgot to open the bottle. Other days, I dry-swallowed a fistful just to induce the blackout.

The blade returned to my nightstand.

I dragged it across my arm, adding fresh, angry red lines over the faded white scars from a year ago.

Nothing lethal. Just enough to feel.

Then, the orange bottle was empty. I existed in a fugue state. Drifting. Numb.

I don't know how I survived the week. But the calendar turned.

It was the anniversary of Margot's death.

The sun had the audacity to shine.

I forced myself out of bed. I showered, scrubbing the depression off my skin. I stopped at a florist and bought a bouquet of white lilies.

But when I arrived at the cemetery, I wasn't alone.

Paula was already there. The headstone was crowded with offerings. Candles. Photos.

I walked up, keeping my face a blank mask. I placed the lilies on the grass.

I turned to leave.

Crack.

Something heavy slammed into the back of my skull.

Pain exploded behind my eyes. The world tilted violently. I stumbled, nearly falling to the ground.

My bouquet scattered. The lilies lay broken and decapitated on the ground.

Paula stood over me. Her chest heaved. Her voice was a jagged scream of pure hatred.

"What are you doing here?"

"You murderer! How do you have the face to see her?!"

Then the rage broke into hysterical sobbing. "It should have been you! You should be the one in that box!"

I didn't look back.

My head throbbed, a rhythmic pounding that synced with my heart. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, vertigo spinning the world.

I clenched my fists. Breathe.

I forced my legs to move. I got into the car.

My phone buzzed. A text from Dr. Rachel.

Hazel, you missed your appointment today.

I stared at her profile picture. My vision blurred. It took a long time to type the reply.

Sorry. Something came up.

The three dots appeared instantly.

I can reschedule you. When can you come in?

I watched the cursor blink.

Blink. Blink.

I deleted the text. I typed a lie instead.

I'll call you next time.

Chapter 8

Roman came home early. A rarity.

It wasn't Skylar propping him up this time. It was a male intern, struggling under the dead weight.

I was sitting on the floor, squinting into the bottom of my orange prescription bottle. It had been empty for a long time.

The intern dumped Roman onto the couch, muttered a polite goodbye, and fled.

The air in the living room thickened, heavy with the stench of expensive scotch and stale regret. Roman was wasted. His face was flushed a deep, blotchy red, his expression slack.

We were alone.

The overhead lights were unforgiving. They washed out his features as he slumped there, eyes half-lidded, head lolling toward me.

I set the empty bottle down. Click.

I stared at him.

Suddenly, he surged up from the cushions. He didn't stand, just braced himself, swaying. His eyes locked onto mine.

He didn't move toward me. He just squinted, a slow, delirious smile spreading across his face. His eyes were rimmed with red.

Then, he whispered a name.

"Margot."

My heart stopped.

"I haven't thought about you in so long," he slurred. "I met someone. A girl."

He giggled, a wet, dark sound. "She looks just like you. Exactly like you. I'm going to marry her."

His face crumbled, confusion clouding the drunken haze. "But but Her mother says she killed you."

I sat frozen.

My blood turned to ice. The cold started in my chest and shot to my fingertips.

He kept talking, mumbling nonsense, but the sound faded into white noise. I didn't hear another word.

Margot.

The name echoed in the silence. The girl who jumped from the high-rise two years ago. My dead sister.

Click.

The puzzle pieces slammed together.

The look of shock on his face the first time we met. The instant, overwhelming kindness. The way he looked at me but seemed to be seeing someone else.

"If it weren't for that face"

It wasn't love. It was a haunting.

I wasn't his fiance. I was a ghost substitute.

My salvation was just another layer of hell.

I scrambled up. My legs felt like jelly.

I ran to the study. I tore through the shelves in the corner. My hands shook so hard I could barely grip the spines.

Thump. Thump.

Books hit the floor. I flung them aside, creating a chaotic pile of paper and leather.

I needed proof.

Found it.

An old yearbook. Tucked inside was a loose photo. High school graduation. A young Roman, face fresh and unlined.

And standing next to him, wearing a pristine uniform skirt, looking like a blooming flower at eighteen

Margot.

My brain, usually fogged by trauma and meds, suddenly snapped into terrifying clarity.

Thud.

Footsteps behind me. Stumbling. Fast.

Roman burst into the room. He lunged for the photo in my hand. He was drunk, but the adrenaline had sobered him just enough to be dangerous.

"Why"

He grabbed my wrist, his grip bruising.

"Why wasn't it you who died?"

That was it