Chapter 1
Preface
This book is not a story.
It is a confession. The confession of a woman who lived behind a mask for years. A woman who learned how to mimic being human. A woman who realized, one day, that the hollow within her would never be filled.
Perhaps you, too, know this hollow. Perhaps you, too, have spent nights staring at the ceiling, wondering: “Am I truly here? Or am I merely pretending to be?”
If you recognize this feeling, this book is for you.
But be warned: this journey is not easy. It will take you to places you may not wish to see. It will confront you with something you may have been fleeing for years.
But if you are ready… if you are prepared to walk to the edge…
Then come along.
The edge is waiting.
Chapter One: The Pulse
An ice cube was melting on my collarbone; a freezing, slow tear sliding down my skin.
I stood before the office restroom mirror, watching the water pool in the hollow of my throat. I was waiting for a tremor. Waiting for a spark. But nothing. My skin felt like a garment two sizes too small—tight, suffocating, yet internally, completely numb. I dug my fingernails into my left palm until the half-moons drew blood. Just to see if I could feel the “edge” of my own existence.
But that void inside me swallowed the pain whole and whispered its usual, hungry tune.
It was nine in the morning. The scent of bitter coffee and fresh paper hung in the air. I was Mary. Dr. Mary. A family therapist. A woman who was supposed to help three couples today to piece together the broken shards of their lives again.
Across the heavy wooden desk sat David. A forty-five-year-old man with slumped shoulders and a wedding ring that seemed too heavy for his finger. His wife, Sarah, sat on the sofa a meter away, staring at an invisible spot on the carpet.
David was talking. His voice trembled: “Doctor… I don’t know how to reach her anymore. It’s like there’s a glass wall between us. I want to touch her, I want to feel her, but when I reach out, I only hit coldness. It’s like she’s not even there.”
I should have nodded like a good psychologist. I should have empathized. I should have scattered words like “intimacy,” “vulnerability,” and “connection” through the air like pain relievers.
But my eyes were not locked with David’s.
They had slid downward. To the white collar of his shirt. To the hollow right beneath his earlobe. Where the skin became thin and the carotid artery pulsed with every word.
Thump… thump… thump…
I was staring at that pulse. At that lifeline running under the skin. I felt that if I sank my teeth into it and pressed, I might be able to swallow that life. Perhaps then the void inside me would be filled for a second. I wasn’t looking into his eyes; I wanted to see how that pulse hammered frantically when the man was afraid.
And then, the shaking began.
My left hand, hidden in the shadow of the desk, began to tremble. A slight, imperceptible tremor that started at my fingertips and reached my wrist like a weak electric shock.
This wasn’t withdrawal. It was my brain screaming. My brain wanted dopamine. Not the dopamine of a normal kiss. Not the dopamine of standard sex in the dark of a hotel room. My brain needed the “edge.” The place where pleasure ended and pain began. The place where one could no longer tell if I was breathing or suffocating.
“Dr. Mary?”
David’s voice pulled me away from the pulse. He was looking at me with concern. “Are you alright? Your hand…”
I quickly pressed my left hand under my thigh. I suffocated the tremor with my body weight. I smiled. That same professional, calm, and soothing smile I had plastered on my face like a mask for years.
“I’m fine, David. I was just thinking about your words.” I heard my own voice. The voice of a rational woman. The voice of a savior. “This feeling of rejection… when you reach out and hit coldness… where exactly in your body do you feel it?”
David took a deep breath and started talking again. But I didn’t hear his voice anymore.
My entire focus was on my left hand, crushed beneath my legs. And on that pulse. Thump… thump… thump…
It was eleven-fifteen. I had fifteen minutes until the next session. Fifteen minutes until I had to take off that tight garment again and return to my real world. A world where, to feel even a drop of that pulse, I had to break myself.
I picked up my red pen and drew a jagged, crooked line on the scrap paper.
The Edge of Flesh.
I was getting close to that edge. And this time, I knew I wouldn’t fall.
I am jumping.
