Sara Ella
Coral
“Life itself is the most wonderful fairy tale.”
This story is dedicated to anyone who has ever encouraged, or listened, or understood.
And to anyone who needs encouragement. Or to be heard. Or to be understood.
This one is for you.
As well as:
For my husband, Caiden—
Because you accept my tears and love me, emotions and all.
And for Brooke—
You are my sister always.
Thank you for letting me borrow your name . . . and for everything else.
And for Janalyn—
A sunshine heroine for my beautiful sunshine friend.
I hope she’s everything you wanted and more.
And for Mary—
For understanding. For empathy. But mostly for your heart.
And for my sister, Madisyn—
You are one of the strongest people I know.
I hope you know how much your strength continues to inspire me.
And in loving memory of Angela (Coffee & Chapters)—
You were a light in the darkness.
Your story lives on through the lives you touched.
Can’t wait to see you again, my friend.
And for Mandi—
Your heart and courage amaze me.
Your authenticity resonates with me more than I can say.
And for Kayla—
You’ve been with this story from day one.
For that and so much more, this one’s for you.
And for Gabrial—
From beginning to end, you have always been right here.
You remind me why I write even when I want to quit.
And for Nadine—
Because you walked me through this Abyss.
And you brought light when I couldn’t find my way.
A Note to My Readers
For my friends who have experienced trauma, a warning—this story may be triggering. I have done my best to approach the mental health topics addressed in this book in the most sensitive and caring way possible. But even all the research and sensitivity readers in the world would never make it so I could approach every aspect of mental health from every perspective. Your experience is unique to you.
Potential triggers include suicide, self-harm, emotional abuse, anxiety, depression, eating disorders, PTSD, and unwanted advances.
With that said, while some of what I have written comes from research and some from the caring eyes of readers who have lived through many of these experiences, other pieces come from my own personal experience with emotional trauma. If you have lost a loved one, I’m with you. If you face depression or anxiety, my heart aches with you in a truly personal way. If you have ever felt misunderstood for these things or simply wanted to escape altogether—I understand.
For the girl who is not okay. For the boy who wonders if it will ever get better. This story is for you.
My hope is that Coral’s tale may be a small pinprick of light in your darkness—a reminder that you are seen. You are loved. You are not alone. You are not nothing, my friend. And neither am I.
Sincerely,
Before
Her soul was bleeding.
The sand beneath her was cool and damp, the high tide from last evening lingering between the grains. The water would turn red soon, transforming into a bloody, poisonous mess. Red Tide called for her.
Maybe it always had.
She buried her feet, allowing them to take refuge as a hermit crab does on a summer day. She could sit here forever, listening to the ocean’s song as she sprayed her melody onto the shore. The ocean beckoned her as a mother to a child, pleading with her to return to her bosom. To her heart.
But she could never go back. Not now. It was a strange feeling. Longing for something she’d never have again. Hoping for the past, while at once realizing there was nothing she could do to change it.
Hope. A foolish girl’s dream. Time. An unavoidable monster.
Time was a ribbon. She could fold it and tie it, bend it, lose it. Cut it. But if she cut it, she could never piece it back together the way it was before. She could never get it back. All she had left was after.
And after was never the same.
After was full of regret and remorse, fear and doubt. It was the era of shoulda, coulda, woulda. The evolution of “Hi. This is me.” And that was it. Nothing. Because she’d given herself away time and time again, in each instance losing the very fibers that made her who she was inside. And outside. And every in-between. The fibers that made up the soul she longed for and at once wished she never had.
She rubbed her feet. Curled and stretched her toes.
A broken shell tore into the skin of her left foot. She winced and withdrew. Blood, red and angry, drip, drip, dripped onto the sand, dissolving in an instant. As if it never was.
Better a bleeding sole than a tortured soul.
A soul that was nothing now. Because before preluded after.
And after. Was never as it was. Before.
Winter
“But a mermaid has no tears, and therefore she suffers so much more.”
—Hans Christian Andersen, “The Little Mermaid”
Interstitial – Prince Letter
One
Coral
She’s not sick. She’s not.
Coral repeated the idea over and over in her head, clinging to the hope her belief would become truth if she willed it so.
But as her oldest sister’s tearless weeping carried on a steady current from down the palace hall, the idea she was, in fact, not sick became all the more a fantasy. Her sister’s once upon a time now led to an unhappily ever after, forever looming in the shadows of the end.