Текст книги "Stain"
Автор книги: Francette Phal
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 14 страниц)
But that hasn’t happened yet. Mom is one suicide attempt away from a mental hospital. No one is listening to me pray because it’s as if God doesn’t exist. No one is going to save me and Noah. That’s why I can’t pass out. He’s got nobody but me. I can’t leave him alone in this. And I think…I think Dad’s coming close to breaking him. That’s why I always try to draw Dad’s attention to me. I can handle it. When he’s beating the shit out of me, he leaves Noah alone.
The heavy thread of approaching footsteps is all the warning I get before beefy fingers fist through my hair, gripping a handful, and tug me up so that I’m dangled from only that hold, my toes barely touching the ground.
“I’m going to make sure that an ocean liner can cruise through your filthy little asshole when I’m done with you, dog.”
I’m shaking. The pain feels like it’s coming from every pore on my body, but the anger gives me something to focus on. It’s a pitch-black pit centered right at my core. With one eye swollen shut and the other barely open to see much, I stare up unflinchingly into the dead eyes of Satan himself.
I scoff, “I’m only twelve and my dick is bigger than yours, fucker.” I spit out the mucous-filled blood that lines my mouth.
He sends me sailing through the air. My body lands with a sickening thunk against the oil burner. He takes one, two, three giant charging steps toward me, barreling down with all the force and power of a two hundred and some odd pounds man subduing a child.
“NO! Dad. No! I’ll do it! I’ll do it! Please! Please let me do it!”
I can’t hear Noah over the sound of my flesh tearing as our dad makes good on his threat. I can’t hear my twin begging and crying anymore because my screams are too loud.
“AHHHHH!”
The scream brings reality back into focus as the slivers of the dark memory blur away. It’s the little girl fighting and screaming as dick-sheet guy pulls her father into the room and slams the door closed.
Even with the barrier of the bedroom door closed, the muffled “I want my daddy!” can still be heard. “I want my daddy!” she cries again. It’s a high, screeching sound that coincides with her father’s tortured scream. Looking over to the side, I see Dro raising the crowbar and slamming it down on Baz’s right kneecap. He does it again and again, like he’s hammering a nail into wood. All there is is the screaming. So much fucking screaming. “Daddy! Daddy!”
“Shut the fuck up or I’m going to blow your daddy’s head off!” Can’t stand kids.
Silence. Fucking golden.
Approaching Dro, I’m quick to realize his method isn’t going to get the job done any faster. All the goddamned screaming is bound to get someone to call the police, sooner or later. I don’t want to be around if they decide to make it sooner.
Drawing the SIG from the back of my jeans, I close the short gap between us and send the butt of the gun crashing against Baz’s face. “Where the fuck is it?”
Residual shit from my latest memory develops into blazing anger. I can’t see straight. All I want is to beat something to a bloody pulp. I press the gun to Baz’s temple. I’d settle for shooting him, too. “Talk, or I pull the trigger.” Serious as fucking cancer, I take off the safety, my finger poised at the trigger. There’s a silencer attached to the barrel. No one will hear anything.
“I…shit…okay, man, okay. There’s…there’s four grand in the back of the freezer, inside the waffle box.”
“And my product?”
Looking at his sniveling, red face makes me want to pull the trigger. I want him to say there’s nothing left. I want Dro to give me the signal. Pull the trigger. Shoot him. I’m itching. I look up at Dro, but he’s focusing on Baz.
“Fuck, Dro…fuck, man…I’m so fucking sorry, man. I…I have some left. I had to try it…my baby, Felix, he asked to try the new stuff.”
Through clenched teeth, Dro asks, “Where is it?”
“Bathroom…in the toilet. I put it…I put it inside a latex glove, like you showed me, Dro. It’s inside…inside the tank.”
When Dro cocks his head toward the bathroom signaling that I should go get it, I want to tell him to go get his own shit. I don’t want to be the goddamn errand boy right now. But I don’t say shit, mainly because I have enough respect for him to keep my mouth shut when it calls for it. Can’t lie, it takes me a good minute or two to withdraw the gun before slowly stepping away from Baz. With the SIG at my side, I make it to the bathroom. Removing the lid from the tank, I set it down on the sink counter before returning to look inside. Bobbing on top of ice-cold water is a tightly packed pale yellow latex glove. Much as I want to shoot Baz dead for no other reason than he annoys the fuck out of me, I have to give the idiot props on knowing how to store SKY. I exit the bathroom with the wet glove in hand, and Dro anticipates my throw and catches the glove before it falls to the floor. Next, I head to the kitchen where I find a white Whirlpool fridge taking up what little space there is. Still sporting my gun in one hand, I use the other to pull the freezer door open. There’s nothing in there aside from gray freezer-burnt meats well past their expiration date. I keep looking. The box of waffles is behind an empty, white ice cube container. Two bundles of rolled-up cash falls into my hands when I tip the box over. Just for good measure, I look back inside, thinking maybe the remaining two rolls are stuck frozen on the inside of the carton.
Nothing.
Dropping the box, I rifle through the freezer, careless of the dry, frozen meats that fall to the floor in loud clacks. Unrolling the elastic bands, I quickly count each roll as I make my way back to the living room.
I hand Dro the cash. “He’s short two grand.”
“Where’s the rest of my money, Baz?” Dro’s been pretty calm through all of this. Mr. Unflappable. He prefers putting his actions into words rather than displaying them. The number he just did on a weeping Baz is proof of that.
“Look, man…look, just give me a week…a week and I’ll pay you back. I’m good for it, Dro. You know that.”
With a grin, I say, “Let me shoot him.”
Baz’s eyes bounce from left to right, looking first at Dro and then me and then back again. Like he’s wondering if Dro will let me put a bullet in his brain. The anxiety and fear on his face gives me a rush. “I’m good for it! Please, man…come on, Droski, man…my little girl is in there. Please don’t fucking kill me, man…”
In the silence that follows, Dro uses the crowbar to leverage himself to his full height. He looks down at Baz.
I sniff the air and sniff again. “Jesus, fuck!” Taking two quick steps back from the puddle of piss stretching out from under Baz’s ass toward us, I sneer at the cocksucker. I manage to avoid it. Dro isn’t so lucky, but he’s wearing boots so I guess it’s not so bad.
He doesn’t seem to think so.
“AHHHHH! AHHHHH!” Ramming his size sixteen between Baz’s legs, Dro applies weight, crushing Baz’s dick and nuts beneath his booted foot. I almost feel sorry for the guy. Not really though.
“Two days. I’m giving you two days to get my money or I’m going to let the kid here shoot not only your brains out, but your little girl and that little faggot-ass boy toy of yours.”
Outside, Dro has me follow him to his car. He pops open the trunk, lifts the compartment where he keeps a spare and retrieves a brown paper bag.
“Do the drop-off tonight. Three grand. There and back. Route four, under the South Bend overpass. The cop is expecting you.” He hands me the bag but retains a firm hold on the opposite end. Looking at me with two black eyes that are pin needles on his face, he says, “Lose my shit again and I’ll put a bullet in your ass.”
“One fucking time…”
“One fucking time too many, kid. I’ve got too much riding on this business to have you fuck it up.” He finally lets go. “Take the back roads. Let me know when it’s done.”
We split. He leaves me in his dust while my truck wheezes down the road. It takes forty minutes to get to the South Bend overpass. I drive down the gravelly pathway that leads to the graffiti-covered bridge. Down here, it’s a hotbed of homeless people, with their makeshift tents made out of tarp and donated clothes. Grocery carts with their entire life’s contents parking against water-stained concrete walls fill the area. For a good eight months after the murder/suicide of our parents, this had been our life. Twelve years old with too much damn knowledge about sex and not enough about the world. We had to learn very quickly that charity on the streets wasn’t freely given. People always wanted something. Tit for fucking tat. I did what I had to do for both Noah and I to survive.
There wasn’t an amber alert out for us or anything like that, but we learned to evade cops and anyone else who looked like they wanted to take us in. We slept on park benches, under freeway overpasses like this one, and washed our asses in public bathrooms. I stole what we needed to eat from convenience stores. The plan was to eventually make it out west by hitchhiking. Nothing special was there, just figured anywhere was better than Trenton. But shit got derailed when I got caught stealing a few bags of chips, sodas, and some candy. That’s when we got shuffled off into the system.
Shaking my head to bring me back to focus, I shut off my headlights and drive farther down. I don’t bring any unnecessary attention to myself. Not that snitching isn’t a possibility but most of the people down here are junkies, too loaded to see straight let alone be taken seriously by anyone who came around asking questions.
Three successive flashes from a pair of headlights grabs my attention. I drive closer to find a black SUV idling next to a pile of long metal cylinders. I wait a good five minutes, because you can never be too cautious when it comes to shit like this. With the paper bag scrunched up tight to fit inside my back pocket, I get out of my truck. The last two times I came with Dro for a drop-off the cop got out of the car to meet him. I’m guessing he’s not going to give me the same courtesy as he remains in the SUV. In the back of my head I’m wondering if it’s a setup. A sting of some sort meant to catch Dro, but he sent me instead because he knew what would go down. Set me up for his fall. That’s the cynical part of me. It never lets me get too comfortable. But with my luck, this sort of shit wasn’t impossible. Either way, I wouldn’t be going down without a fight. The SIG is exactly where I want it to be, snug at the crack of my ass. I can reach for it easily enough if I need it. When I approach the SUV, the driver rolls down the window about halfway down. A slight tilt of my head allows me to see that it’s the same guy I remember.
He’s what you’d expect a cop to look like. Tall, broadly built, and stocky. He still has that ugly-as-fuck crew cut, but he’s shaved off his beard from the last time I saw him. My eyes flick to the passenger seat. There’s a girl seated there, not much I can tell about her except that she’s not wearing much in the way of clothes, except of course for the sports cap covering her long, black hair, the bill lowered to cover her face. With her jaw moving as she chews on what I can only guess is gum, she keeps her gaze focused straight ahead.
The abrupt “Hey,” is accompanied by a short whistle and a snap of his fingers. When I look at him he stares back with glassy, black eyes. “Got something for me?”
Reaching inside my back pocket, I hand him the brown paper bag. “Three grand.”
He smirks, adding, “Heard your boss got some new product he’s dealing.”
I shrug. “Couldn’t tell ya.”
As his stare narrows, he doesn’t say a damn thing.
“We good?”
“Tell your boss if he wants to keep dealing in my city, it’s going to start costing him a little more.”
Poker-faced, I ask, “How much more?”
“Double.”
“I’ll give him the message.”
He smirks. “Like a good little errand boy.”
Clenching my jaw on the “Eat my dick, motherfucker,” isn’t without effort. Clear as fucking day, I can see the challenge in his eyes, the antagonism that dares me to give him a reason to haul me in, and I sure as fuck am not about to give him one. No matter how much I wanted to spray his car with bullet holes. I wait until he drives off before heading back to my pickup to head home.
Chapter 6
Aylee
It’s Friday and typically we’d be in school right now, but we’ve been given a day off because of faculty meetings. Rachel, Sarah, and I leave first. I’m not overly fond of sitting in the passenger seat so Sarah hops in next to her mother, while I slide into the back. Just as we’re pulling out from the driveway, I see Tim step out of the side door of the house. I watch him through the tinted window as he makes his way to the second car parked in the garage. The black Dodge Durango is what he generally takes to work. Slung over his shoulder is a big, navy blue duffel bag he dumps into the trunk. Just before Rachel drives away, Tim looks up and spears me with black as night eyes. A shudder trickles down my spine at the small smirk he gifts me with. It’s like he knows I’m looking at him. Like he can see me looking at him through the dark glass. I remain unsettled all the way to the hospital.
Beth Israel Psychiatric is a twenty minute ride from the house. I could’ve ridden my bike here, and normally I do, but whenever she can, Rachel likes playing chauffeur. She likes being needed, I guess. I thank her for the ride and she tells me she’ll pick me up in an hour and a half. She idles for a bit, probably making sure I actually go to the group. If she could, I’m sure she’d want to hold my hand and walk me inside herself. Stepping inside the glass revolving door always makes me feel like I’m being swallowed alive. The feeling of claustrophobia that takes me by the throat when I step inside is thankfully brief. I breathe easier when I make it to the other side. The foyer is like any typical hospital. Overly-waxed, white tiled floors, bright florescent lights and uninspired white walls. There’s a reception area directly in front of me with two employees seated behind a long, black desk, both occupied with their respective guests on the phone. The only thing remotely appealing about the winding wooden staircase to my right is the elegantly crafted black wrought iron handrails. Heading to the bank of elevators located farther down the foyer, I make a small detour to the Starbucks facing the first floor waiting area, and come out a beat later with a cup of Venti passion fruit iced tea. Just as I round the corner, I barely manage to avoid colliding with a very pregnant woman and her boyfriend/husband. My immediate apology doesn’t save me from the boyfriend/husband’s wrath as he proceeds to cuss me out.
“Stupid bitch, watch where the fuck you’re going!”
I murmur another apology before hastily escaping further scorn. With no further incident, I hop inside the elevator, press the button for the fourth floor, and exit the cab when it reaches my destination. I’m the only one to get out from the small cluster of eight people who hopped in with me. On both my right and left there are a series of closed doors that continue down the carpeted hallway. Black plaques with golden lettering hang next to each door indicating the names of the physicians and their specialty. Outpatient group therapy is the fifth door on my left. I step inside to find a room of seven familiar faces. They’re all seated around a long, white-topped rectangular table. Every other chair is empty because no one is sitting next to each other except of course for the bleary-eyed couple at the end of the table. Jay and Sylvia. They’ve moved their steel chairs so close together that Sylvia is practically on Jay’s lap. They have their hands firmly interlocked on top of the table as if letting go seemed blasphemous. There are five chairs that remain unoccupied. I take the empty chair toward the back next to Sylvia and it’s not too long before the remaining four trickle into the room rounding out our group of twelve. There’s two clinical social workers in charge of our group. Monday’s, Wednesday’s, and Friday’s group therapy is always lead by Patricia Wallis. While Tuesdays and Thursdays are Regina Petersons’ days. I like Patricia the most because between the two she seems far more experienced at her job than her coworker. She also has a sort of empathy that makes it easy for people to talk to her. So I’m a little disappointed to find that rather than Patricia, Regina is leading the group today.
“I’ll be covering Patricia’s sessions for the next two weeks,” she announces.
“Why?” the girl seated across from me asks curtly.
Pushing her wire frame glasses further up on her nose, Regina sighs. “I’m not sure, Allison. All I know is that she won’t be here for some time.”
“I heard it’s because she got caught giving a handy to one of her patients. Is that true?” While the rest of the room erupts in laughter, I look at Regina for a reaction. Although she tries to remain calm, the expression on her face gives her annoyance away.
A deep frown knits her brow. “How about we start the group, instead.” It’s not a question. “I’m thinking today we focus on personal control.”
Standing beside an easel holding a dry-erase board, she scribbles down illegible words that look like chicken scratch. I take my sketchpad out of my canvas bag and open it up to my recent work in progress. I’m not completely ignoring her. I have half an ear of what she’s saying, but she’s not saying anything I haven’t already heard. It’s going to be ninety minutes of her droning on and on. I can get my sketch done in that amount of time. The sound of Regina’s voice fades into the background as inspiration takes hold of me. I lose myself in my artwork, my fingers laboring across the charcoal-covered page to conjure a demon. One of mine, more than likely. Another entity inspired by my fascination with the macabre drawings. The more gruesome, the better it seems.
There’s a monster on my page. He’s made up of slashing, angry, bold, black lines and shadows. He has stygian black eyes and claws that seem to extend from the sketchpad with the intent of snatching me from my contrived bliss. It’s the sound of the door banging close that draws me back to reality. Like everyone else in the room, my eyes automatically fly to the entryway. Instant recognition has my heart lurching painfully against my chest, while my mind races.
What’s he doing here?
That silent inquiry ricochets inside the walls of my mind as I survey him. Black hoodie, black, fitted jeans, and scuffed, black boots sum up the whole outfit. He has rock star hair today, mussed around his head like he just rolled out of bed. There’s a presence about him. It’s something so unmistakable, patented only to him, that I can’t seem to deny or resist the draw. It has me sitting up a little straighter in my chair. That magnetizing appeal he wields so well is the reason why I stare like he’s the Second Coming. It’s also why when I try to swallow, it feels like the Sahara has made a temporary home inside my mouth.
“Hi,” Regina greets with a tight smile, breaking the awkward silence his entrance ushered in, “welcome to the group.”
He says nothing in response, only hands her a folded piece of paper before he walks away. He has a slow, lazy gait. Unhurried, like time itself should move in accordance to his progression. Dropping my gaze is almost reflexive when he saunters past me. I would hate to be caught looking. Hate for him to discover my odd fascination with him, and become weirded out by it. Tension sets my spine ramrod straight when he takes the seat next to me. Sweat pearls along my skin making me feel oddly cold and hot all at the same time. The next hour and fifteen minutes is sweetly unbearable. Trying to concentrate on sketching becomes a task I can’t commit to. From my peripheral, I see him but not very well. And when I tell myself not to look, the desire to do otherwise is so strong it’s hard to fight it. I find my head turning more than a few times, my eyes trailing the exquisite structure of his face. He has a wide forehead and low, hooded brows set over slumbering eyes. With him sleeping, it’s easier to look at him. I take in his angular jaw, the cleft in his square chin that leads to the grim line of his full mouth. The small, white scar slashing down the corner of his top lip is noticeable this close up. There’s a slight crook in his nose but it barely detracts from his masculine beauty. Resting on blessedly high cheekbones are full, dark lashes that match the jet of his hair. It’s styled in an undercut, trimmed low all around except the top, which he’s gathered in a short ponytail. My eyes return to his mouth, specifically to the scar, and it’s while I’m wondering how he got it that Regina calls the end to the group.
“All right, guys, I’ll see you next week. Great session today.” I wouldn’t know. I’ve been preoccupied gawking at my living muse. While everyone gets up and files out of the room, scraping chairs back and speaking a little too loudly, Maddox remains sleeping. Completely unbothered by the noise. I push away from the table, ready to follow behind everyone else in exiting the room except I find myself lingering back and even before I can process the next thought, my hand is reaching out to him with the intention of waking him up. It’s completely stupid and uncharacteristic of me, and luckily my nerves come into play in the next second, stilling my hand and curbing my short bout of insanity. With my hand still hovering inches from his tattooed shoulder, I can feel the heat radiating off his body. Inferno hot. And maybe it’s my overactive imagination or maybe just wishful thinking, but his skin is like a magnet that exerts a pull on my fingers so powerful I have to curl them into a tight fist to keep myself from touching him.
You need to go.
It’s a simple command that my mind whispers.
Don’t be creepy.
I silently scoff at that.
Too late.
Grateful that his deep sleep has spared him of my eccentricities, I gather my things and vacate the room as fast as I possibly can, only to trip over my feet in the corridor. I’m quick enough in catching myself before I go sprawling to the floor, but it doesn’t save me the embarrassment. The three women who’d been standing near the door chatting understandably snicker as I walk by. It’s with reddened cheeks that I step inside the mercifully empty elevator shaft. I’m reaching over to press the L button when I see him coming. He smoothly makes it inside before the double silver doors close at the center. I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know how to act. All there is is the heavy vibration of infinite silence occasionally interrupted by the whirring wires of the elevator gradually bringing us down to our mutual destination. In this tight, enclosed space, I become too conscious of his force. He’s gravity and I’m merely debris, completely drawn in by his influence. I can feel the irregular beats of my heart knocking against the bars of my rib cage, playing out the rhythm of my unease. With every choppy intake of breath, I take his scent into my lungs. It’s a scent distinct only to him. It’s a mixture of sun, wood, and freshly cut grass. There’s a spicy base note that lingers like melted chocolate on my tongue. It’s hell on wires that lasts too long but isn’t long enough when the elevator finally grounds to a stop. I step out first and I’m proud of myself for fighting the impulse to turn and look behind me. Taking a bracing breath, I conquer the revolving door once more and walk outside. Looking to my left and then my right, I finally see Rachel’s car in the second parking lot as it slowly makes its way to me.
“Next time,” I gasp sharply, my eyes wide, “you should just touch me.” He delivers the words with hushed gruffness. The whisper of his warm breath against my ear and neck sends a foreign sensation ribboning down my spine. He walks away in the same instant Rachel pulls up. My skin is prickling, my heart racing erratically. Standing paralyzed on the sidewalk, I watch his retreating back. Hands in the pockets of his jeans, he steadily makes his way to the parking lot until he disappears from my view.
“Aylee, sweetheart, are you okay?” It takes Rachel’s inquiry to snap me out of my temporary paralysis. Opening the rear door, I glide inside and firmly close it behind me.
“Yeah.” I buckle my seat belt. “I’m okay.”
Anxious to see if she’ll mention Maddox, I wait with bated breath.
“How was therapy?”
A quiet exhale deflates my body as I slump back into the seat. “Fine.” I’ve never been very forthcoming with my replies about therapy anyway, so when I answer back with one-word syllables it isn’t anything unusual. But I’m distracted. My gaze is focused outside the tinted window. Rachel has to take the next left to navigate out of the hospital parking lot. Unconsciously, I move closer to the door, turn my head completely now, as my gaze bounces around. Searching…searching for a glimpse of him. Nothing. He’s nowhere to be found.
A part of me thinks I just imagined the scene that plays over and over again long after we get home, have dinner, and I wash up for bed. Sleep doesn’t come. I’m at the nook of my windowsill, my legs in a lotus position, cradling my sketchpad. His image is in shadowed charcoal and crosshatching. But as usual, my sketch pales in comparison to the real thing. Yet my fingers trace down his cheek, and though it’s the rough texture of the page that greets my fingers, I close my eyes and imagine the radiating heat of his flesh beneath my fingertips.
Next time…you should just touch me.
The gravely intonation of his voice is an echo inside the catacombs of my mind, so real that I open my eyes to stupidly look around my room for him. Bringing the pencil to the corner of my mouth, I mindlessly chew on it as I analyze the words and the manner in which they were said. They seemed pretty straightforward and yet I want to know what he meant. Is there even any great meaning to them? Or am I putting too much emphasis on this? He was teasing, obviously. But he and I barely interacted before this for it to be a casual thing. We share a class together, astronomy, which he rarely shows up to. We don’t know each other well enough to tease. I don’t even think he knows my name.
No, but he knows you exist, my mind is quick to supply.
Next time…you should just touch me.
Would I? Could I? The idea of touching him—
The distinct creak just outside my bedroom door puts an immediate halt to my thoughts. I stay very still even while my heart begins a canter that quickly turns to a gallop. Bile surges up, hot and sour, it coats the back of my throat with acid. Revulsion has me pulling the pencil out of my mouth to bring it to my forearm. The one with the thick, ugly scar. I scrap the leaded tip slowly up and down my arm, going just a little deeper each time, like that will get rid of the sensation of tiny little maggots wriggling just beneath my flesh. My eyes crawl to my doorway, the two black shadows of a set of feet interrupting the flow of light beneath my door tells me it’s no one else but Tim. If it were Rachel or Sarah, they would’ve said something by now. Tim—Tim is always quiet. A flesh and blood ghost haunting my doorway. Silent like the rest of the house at this time of night. The scratch of the pencil gets faster when he grips the doorknob and turns it. It’s locked. He tries it again.
Turn. Click. Click.
Turn. Click. Click.
Turn. Click. Click.
I count a hundred seconds while he stands there.
Go away.
Go away.
Go away.
Waiting. Waiting for me to open the door.
Turn. Click. Click.
Turn. Click. Click.
Turn. Click. Click.
Waiting for me to let him in. Waiting…waiting for his sweet little flower.
The bile clogging my throat finds an exit. I only have seconds to fall to my knees before digested lumps of pasta and processed hamburger meat shoot from my mouth and splatter all over the wooden floor. I spew for what feels like an eternity until there’s nothing left but dry heaves. It’s not enough. It doesn’t ever feel like enough, because I still feel dirty inside. I’m swimming in filthy, viscous sludge. I’m drowning in it.
I need to bleed it out. I need to—
Surging to my feet, mindless of the mess I made, I scramble to my bed. Hunched over at the waist, I lift and push my mattress until it’s half off the double box spring beneath. One-track mind. The mind of an addict. The mind of a cutter. I reach for my hidden blade. My tiny, shiny stainless steel succor. Not my wrist. Too obvious. Too noticeable. Rachel checks there. The inside of my thighs where numerous other cuts line my skin like railroad tracks is where I make the first slice. It’s long. I start at the inside of my groin, dragging the blade all the way down the side of my knee.
It’s a catharsis for me.
The sting as my skin splits open is as familiar as the sweet release that follows it. The dazzling red line is a highway route on a road map I follow, needing to know where it will lead me. Vaguely aware that he’s gone now, I allow the trance of cutting to pull me further under. I cut, and cut, and cut, and cut. Manifesting my internal distress, and convert it into something physical. Something I can control. Scars that will remind me what I feel inside is real. The marks of my monsters. I’m under a spell. Cotton is in my ears. Head in the clouds. Heart beating slow. My hand moves, fingers gripping the blade tightly as it slits me open.
The highway eventually leads to a dead end. No more road to cruise on. Reality takes a wrecking ball to my trance, shattering the protective cocoon and leaving me vulnerable to a world that feels too tight against my skin. There’s a blaze of fire beneath the slashing red lines decorating the inside of my thighs. It looks horrific; bloody carnage against my fair skin. Relief is gone, congealed beneath throbbing flesh, leaving behind a numb shell. I’m on autopilot as I rise to clean myself. Running cold water from the faucet and a washcloth, I swipe down my thighs to take away my shame. Self-loathing is palpable in the pink water filling the sink until it’s sucked down the drain. The prominent flavor of disgust coats the inside of my mouth; bitter and vile. Red and white stripped toothpaste replaces it with a sweet mint aftertaste. I turn off the light of the second floor bathroom connected to my room and make my way to the pool of vomit by my windowsill. My sketchpad is strewn across the floor where it’s covered in splashes of regurgitated red sauce. The image of Maddox is covered in my stain. I rip the page out of the sketchpad and tear it in two, tossing it in the wastebasket. I’m not oblivious to the symbolism.
