Rose
I’m cold in sports bra and panties, my hard nipples pressed against the black fabric in protest of the breeze that hits my body as soon as I open the bathroom window.
Abel is on the other side of the door, likely wondering why I’ve locked myself in this tiny space.
It hugs me. Much like the room at Silverwing, only without its bleach and urine scents. I don’t count. There is no fear.
I don’t quite know what there is, but I revel in the familiarity of this moment.
Am I punishing myself? I can’t tell.
There, in the corner, my jacket sits. My hands are still wearing my mother’s blood as I reach for it—the knife in the pocket. I don’t react when the blade pokes my finger. Once it’s in my grip, I head toward the sink and toss it down.
I don’t want to touch the letter—the only thing my sister left behind—with these filthy hands. But the words will not stop circling around in my head, making me feel faint with such foreign and piercing emotions.
She’s gone.
When I lift my head, my reflection shocks me, with its glassy eyes and sorrowful expression.
I yearn to cut it from my body. To be as cold as I’ve been all along.
But I can’t. I glance at the door. A reminder that the person on the other side of it has brought too much warmth to my world.
And so, the internal struggle of being who he deserves and fighting who I am waxes and wanes on as I reach for the knife again.