Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Ellie
“Deeper. Cut deeper.” I moan as pain shoots through my arm. “Deeper, don’t stop.” More pain. More blood. Throbbing. Screaming. So much pain. “Deeper!”
My hand trembles as I hold a single shard of glass to my skin.
“Stop,” I moan, tears burning my eyes. “Stopppp.”
My eyes shoot open, my vision hazy as the room comes into focus. The scent of blood fills my nostrils. I nearly choke on the
coppery odor. I stumble, bumping into the counter and holding a hand out to catch myself. It’s then that I see it. Rivers
of red running down my arm and into the sink.
“Oh God,” I groan, grabbing the nearest hand towel and wrapping it around my arm. I can’t tell if the cuts are deep or superficial,
but they’re throbbing. I drop the bloody shard of wine glass into the sink and then unwrap my arm to have a quick look. Fuck.
If I need stitches, it will be impossible to hide them from Jack. He’ll never let me be again—he’ll handcuff me to him and
drive me straight to the asylum.
I hold my wrapped arm to me and move to the bathroom.
I find bandages in the drawer, and antibiotic ointment.
I move quickly, trying my best to keep the dripping blood limited to the sink as I squirt the ointment over my arm and then begin wrapping the wound tightly.
It takes me a few minutes, but finally the bandages are tight enough that the blood isn’t seeping through.
I glance down at the bloody towel in the sink, thinking that it looks like a crime scene in here.
I’ll have to wash everything up and clean the sink and discard the wine glass before Jack gets home.
And then it occurs to me what’s going on here. It’s the middle of the night. I was sleepwalking and just about ended my own
life with a broken wine glass. Maybe Jack is right: maybe I can’t be trusted when left alone. Maybe if I knew what was good
for me, I would take myself to the psychiatric facility. Bare minimum I could use some new medications to help me sleep peacefully.
I cringe as I gather the bloody towel and take it to the washing machine. I toss it in, add soap and hit start before heading
to the kitchen to clean up the broken glass. My eyes ache with exhaustion by the time I’m finished. It’s after 4am by the
time I go back to bed, my arm throbbing.
When I wake a few hours later, my head is foggy and the only thing I know for sure is that work would be all but impossible
today. From bed, I shoot a quick email off to human resources and explain that I’m feeling under the weather. Then I open
an internet search bar and begin researching severe sleepwalking disorders.
I’m deep down the rabbit hole reading an article about a woman who used a sleep disorder defense in a murder case when I hear the front door open.
My heart lurches because no one should be coming into the house in the middle of the morning on a Friday.
I move to the bedroom door and peek through the crack, my heart calming when I see my husband walking through the kitchen.
I pull the sleeve of my sweatshirt down to cover my bandages and then open the door.
“Hey!” I call as I walk into the kitchen.
Jack jumps, spinning around with a look of shock on his features. “What are you doing here?”
“I didn’t feel good this morning—I had trouble sleeping last night,” I confess. He looks me up and down, as if he’s trying
to find the lie in my words. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I tug at my sleeve unconsciously, sending him a reassuring but fake smile.
“Hey—don’t forget about that juicing retreat I bought you for your birthday.” He sets his laptop bag down on the counter.
“Oh, right. When is it again?”
“This weekend.” He pulls something out of his pocket, opening the trash can to dispose of it. “What’s this?”
“Hm?” I settle at the kitchen island, my mind hazy with the lack of sleep.
“A broken wine glass . . . covered in blood?” His eyes narrow on mine.
“Oh—yeah, happened last night.” I try to make light of the situation.
“Is that so?” Jack closes the trash can and then moves closer to me, eyes lingering on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “Did you
cut yourself?”
I glance down at my sleeve to find fresh blood staining the hem.
“Yeah—it’s nothing.” I force a smile.
“Doesn’t look like nothing,” he grunts, grasping my arm and pulling it toward him.
I wince at the pain, thinking not for the first time that maybe I should have gone to the emergency room to get stitches last night.
“Jesus, El—” he shoves my sleeve up to reveal my poorly bandaged and bloody arm. “What the fuck?”
“I’m fine.” I yank my arm out of his grip and pull my sleeve down. “I just need to switch out the bandage.”
Jack’s eyes pierce mine with a dozen unsaid accusations. He finally seems to land on one and says, “It’s like you’re fucking
possessed at night.”
“Really?” I spit with anger.
“Really, El. I think digging into your past is dredging up old harmful memories. I mean, what else am I supposed to think?
I asked you to take some time off from work and maybe do a spa getaway, see a doctor about some sleep medications—”
“Sleep medications can make sleepwalking worse, actually—I’ve been reading.”
“Right.” He huffs, slamming his open palm down on the counter. “I’m doing what I can to keep you safe, but it’s like you don’t
even care for your own safety—why the hell should I?” He pushes a hand through his hair. “You remember that time you were
put on a seven-day hold in high school? You tried to take your own life, El.”
“That’s not true—” I protest, but the words fall flat when I realize I don’t really remember why I was there. Oh, I remember
the facility, all right—the facility, the meds, the nurses, the endless tests—but I don’t remember why I was committed. There’s a giant black hole in my memory.
“Oh my God—” I say, about to level him with an accusation, before I realize it’s just better if I keep my mouth shut. And
then another possibility occurs to me.
Aubrey—is she more than just a friendly neighbor who might be having an affair with my husband? Maybe Jack put her up to babysitting me.
I can’t shake the thought as I consider all of the things she’s said to me, plus the fact that they were both at The Peninsula
that night. Maybe they were meeting for a check-in somewhere safe, somewhere they didn’t think I’d find them.
“You know, I’ve done my share of research too. Even called one of the psychiatrists in the city who your father recommended—he
says sleepwalking is genetic. Madness runs in families, El. There’s nothing to be ashamed of—we just need to do what we can
to treat you, give you some peace . . . hell, give me some peace.”
Is he right? Is history repeating itself? I feel like I’ve been under a microscope these last few months, paranoia about my
illness reaching a fever pitch as I try to dodge the landmines of my genetics.
But I can’t shake the feeling that something is off—like Jack is lying to me. Or that he at least has an ulterior motive of
wanting to rid himself of me, maybe so he and Aubrey can run off into the sunset together.
Is this how it ends? The undoing of my marriage? A slow descent into chaos and pain before one last blow takes us out for
good? Or maybe it was already undone, the emotional affair dismantling what was left of us.