Dark Smoke
“GONNA STAY A bit,” Eli says as I pass him by, heading back to the deckhouse.
I nod. Once. Up and down and done.
And keep walking, say nothing. The raspiness of his voice would shatter me if I stayed any longer, said something else. Nothing would fix this. Nothing would make him hurt less.
Apart from me leaving. So he can hurt in peace.
I can give him that much.
The wind is still cold on my face, but my skin is too numb to do more than register the occurrence. The gravel under my sneakers crunches too loud inside my ears, grates and scratches until it’s an headache, splitting my skull open.
Good. Wish the jagged edges were real, cutting into my brain like they’re doing to Eli’s feet.
I make it back to my room on autopilot. Inside, shut the door, turn on the lights, sit on the bed.
My eyes are stuck on the wall, ears ringing with white noise from my own head.
Massaging my eye sockets usually helps with stress headaches, thumbs from the nose and over the ridge.
The thought crosses my mind. I don’t move.
What am I supposed to do now ?
My hands lay lifeless over my thighs. They feel so heavy, twice their size somehow, covered in that pins-and-needles sensation. I’ve probably been clenching them too tight. I stare down at them—yeah, nail imprints on my palms. No blood. It’ll fade soon.
My brain makes the connection before I can help it.
To the heart that was faded. To the ink that was holding on, still visible on my skin just this morning. Before Mom…
I look. Can’t fight it.
C-shaped. On my wrist. The scar of my nightmares.
But my heart is gone.
My body jolts like I set it on fire. I scoot to the nightstand, pry the drawer open. Shit that doesn’t matter rattles inside as I plunge my hand in it, shoving everything all over until I find it.
The pen. I need it.
I click it, yank my sleeve up, settle my left wrist on my thigh. And my fist on my forearm, stabilizing the pen, ready.
I need it back. The heart. My heart.
The pen hovers, tip trembling.
How…was it?
Fuck. What did it look like?
Slightly crooked, right? I press the tip on my skin, move it.
No, that’s wrong—too thin, too neat. I spit on it, wipe the ink off.
My hand shakes, so I hold the pen harder.
Try to breathe, to steady myself. I try again, making it wider, sloppier—but the original wasn’t sloppy, just…
not perfect. Which was the point. There’s no point anymore.
Can’t even remember. Was it tall or wide? Did it dip low or bulge at the sides? I scratch the pen against my wrist, try once more. Don’t erase the wrong ink strokes, just do them again, again, again until there’s only ink and no discernible lines, but they’re all wrong and I can’t remember.
Because it was never supposed to be a memory. I didn’t need to remember, just to look down and smile and feel like everything was going to work out somehow.
But it didn’t. It won’t.
It’s over. My heart—it’s… It’s gone.
And it punches my chest out of heartbeats and air.
Bile shreds up my throat, tears stab into my eyes.
I clench the pen. It cracks. I throw it against the wall.
My arms clamp around my body. Nails dig deep into my ribs because they’re cracking too, bones crumbling, everything exploding. My chest, brain, eyes, mind. I double over, teeth near shattering, containing any sound but it escapes. A groan into a cry into a sob that racks my lungs and my stomach.
People will hear. Can’t see me. Hide. Run and hide.
I stand, trip, slam against the wall. Stagger off, sneakers screeching as I drag them. Bathroom, no lights. Into the shower, knees crash on the floor. My hand flings up, knocking down bottles, finding the faucet. Then turning it all the way.
Ice cold water soaks my hair, my jeans, my shoes.
My hoodie clings, gets heavier, suffocating.
I drop, sit, fall against the wall. Clamp my knees against my chest, hide my face in them, rocking back and forth.
Try to breathe. Can’t. Drowning. Too cold.
No air. Water bangs against my ears, spatters off my lips with each sob, off my chin, teeth chattering.
I just keep not breathing. Keep sobbing too loud, keep scratching my face to make it stop but it doesn’t—never will.
I keep and keep until there’s nothing but static and my own whimpers echoing off the tile.
Pathetic. Everyone will hear. Cameras will find me even in this dark. People will see, will know.
The Perfect Riding Machine. Rusted rotten, nothing inside.
Would anyone even cry? If my next viral photo had my blood circling this drain?
Would PR spin it as warfare? Some competitor’s doing because I was too perfect, too menacing?
Would Mom cry? She would. Would think it’s her fault, maybe start a non-profit in my name, support for families, for riders who aren’t perfect. Make something good out of it like she always does.
Sounds nice. The world after I’m gone. Everyone would heal, eventually.
…
That’s not true.
Eli wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t heal from something like that. And that certainty is enough to wash that dark smoke away from my thoughts, black soot instead of blood red down the drain.
I may have broken both our hearts, but I’m not wasting the life he gave me.
The sobbing stops. The tears still come, I think, the cold water snuffing anything hot from my eyes immediately. I wipe sticky snot on my drenched sleeve, loosen the hold around my knees, just a bit. Then let my forehead thump against the wall, the cool tile incredible against the headache.
And I sigh. Feels like the first breath I ever took.
The water is still as cold but not painful anymore. My teeth stop chattering. My skin is numb—flesh too, down to my bones. It flattens everything, pain and noise and concepts of anything outside this shower.
Can’t feel my legs, but it’s okay. Don’t need them. Need to breathe, and that’s it.
It’s what Eli would tell me.