Chapter 16 Mercer
Chapter sixteen
Mercer
My fingertips burn as I strum along to Bon Iver’s “Holocene,” but when the painful sensation registers as satisfying, I freeze, swallow thickly, and lay the guitar on the bed beside me.
It’s been sixteen days.
Sixteen days of resistance. Abstinence. Treading lightly. Holding back.
Sixteen days of fighting the intrusive thoughts.
Sixteen days without cutting. That somehow feels more significant than the fourteen years before.
Mostly, I’m doing it for Noah.
For his sanity. For his sense of hope.
He’s a natural caregiver. He lives to serve and he’s been disproportionately proud of me with each passing day.
As detached as I am from my own sense of self, disappointing Noah isn’t an option.
I’ve been staying here, in my room at the orchard, since the incident. As much as it pains me to trek past the barn every day on my way to and from campus, being alone isn’t a safe option right now.
There’s also a sliver of hope niggling at the back of my mind.
If she’s going to forgive—if she’s going to reach out—she’ll come here. She’ll open up to Noah.
If there’s any hope for any of us, it exists in this place.
But each passing day feels like an infected wound that’s starting to fester.
Sighing, I close my eyes and press my back into the wall.
“Merce?” The single syllable is followed by a quiet knock. “Dinner’s just about done. Want to come out and eat with me?”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Noah is in his element, making coffee for me each morning, preparing food and forcing me to eat, even when I insist I’m not hungry.
He’s made sure I’m out the door on time.
He has all his chores around the orchard wrapped up by the time I get home each afternoon, ensuring I’m rarely alone.
And what have I fucking done besides contribute to his heartache and create more work for him?
I stare at my bare feet hanging off the side of the bed, drowning in a listlessness I can’t shake. But for Noah, I’ll do anything.
“Yeah,” I call back. “I’ll be out in three minutes.”
His footsteps are quiet on the hardwood floor as he walks away.
I close my eyes and count, steadying my breathing until I hit one hundred twenty.
With one minute to spare, I force my back to straighten and rise out of bed.
The room is dark now that the sun has set. My computer monitor usually provides an ambient glow, but I’ve been on leave from Better Yet for more than two weeks. It’s the longest I’ve gone without a shift since I started volunteering more than a decade ago.
I trudge toward the door, every step weighted, each movement requiring maximum effort.
The temptation to stay put is strong.
The desire to fade into the darkness and cease to exist dominates my mind.
The phantom burning sensations on my inner thighs taunts me mercilessly, reminding me of how weak and useless and pathetic I really am.
By the time I reach the door handle, I want to crumple into a heap and sleep.
But I push myself, determined to make the effort.
I don’t deserve it, but Noah does, so I yank open the door and head toward the kitchen.