My Sister's Depression

The church bells had just struck for the third time. I clutched the white lace hem, my fingertips grazing the fine cotton lining beneath the wedding gown. In the mirror, my face still bore freshly applied makeup, blush like two pale clouds. The bridesmaid gently adjusted my veil, smiling as she said I was the most beautiful bride today. I nodded, but an inexplicable unease stirred deep within me. This anxiety had lingered since morning, like an impenetrable fog. When the chapel door opened, I thought Joseph Cooper had arrived. Footsteps hurried by, carried on the wind, but it was not his scent. It was Blair. My sister Blair, the one who left six months ago to seek treatment for her depression abroad. She wore a black dress, her hair wild and unkempt, her eyes hollow and frightening. Everyone was stunned, including Joseph Cooper, who stood beside the priest. Blair didn't look at me, nor did she glance at Joseph. She drew a utility knife from her pocket with such suddenness there was no time to react. The moment the blade sliced across her wrist, droplets of blood—like shattered rubies—fell onto the white carpet. "Blair!" I screamed, rushing forward, but Joseph Cooper held me back. His grip was tight, making my arm ache. "Don't go over there," he said, his voice tense, "she's emotionally unstable right now." Blair lifted her head, staring at Joseph Cooper, a strange smile curling at the corner of her mouth: "If you dare marry her, I'll spill blood all over the church." Joseph Cooper's face instantly drained of color. He glanced back at me, his eyes so complex it made my heart race. "Vivian, you go first," he whispered, "I'll calm Blair down first, then explain everything to you later." I shook my head, tears already streaming down: "Joseph, she is my sister; we need to take her to the hospital." "This is no time for that!" His tone suddenly turned harsh. Two men dressed in black approached, one on each side, seizing me. I struggled, and the hem of my wedding gown tore open with a rip. "Joseph Cooper, let me go!" I cried, my voice breaking with sobs. He didn't look back, only telling the two men, "Take her to the old warehouse on the outskirts. Watch her closely—don't let her escape." The car had been driving for a long time, and the view outside the window shifted from bustling streets to desolate fields. The warehouse was thick with dust, and the air was heavy with the scent of rust. They tied me to a cold iron chair, the ropes biting painfully into my wrists. Joseph Cooper arrived half an hour later. He held a fruit knife in his hand, its blade flashing a cold light in the dimness. "Joseph, what are you planning to do?" I watched him, my heart sinking deeper with each moment. He approached me, crouched down, and the gentle look that usually filled his eyes had vanished. "Blair said, as long as you suffer a little, she's willing to go to the hospital," his voice was soft, yet it pierced my heart like an ice pick. "Vivian, endure it, for my sake, and for Blair's." Before I could grasp his meaning, the blade pressed against my cheek. "No!" I shook my head desperately, tears blurring my vision. When the first cut fell, I could feel the searing pain of my skin splitting. Blood trickled down my cheek, dripping onto my clothes, spreading a dark stain. He didn't stop—cut after cut—each one light, yet painfully sharp. I kept counting, and by the time I reached the end, the pain was so fierce I couldn't even make a sound. My face felt as if countless ants were crawling over it, or as if it were burning with fire. "Ninety-nine cuts," he finally stopped and threw the knife to the ground. "Blair said ninety-nine cuts would bring her peace." I looked at him, my vision blurred by the blood smeared across my face. He took out a tissue, wanting to wipe my face, but I turned my head away to avoid him. "Vivian," he sighed, "When Blair recovers, I promise to hold an even grander wedding for you—far better than today's." I didn't speak; I just felt cold—cold from the depths of my heart to my bones.