42. Sydney
forty-two
sydney
I ignore my phone and lie in bed, alternating between sleep and half-fevered reality. I scribble in my journal when I’m able, when I need to get thoughts out of my head. The hurried words all blend together, and I’m not sure if I’m actually writing or just letting words bleed onto the page.
At some point, I move from my bed to the floor. I consider inching under the bed.
I flick the knife Carter gave me open and closed. I press the tip into my finger, then the underside of my wrist. I almost always wear a watch there… it’s nothing to drag the blade down and slice into my skin.
The pain is refreshing. With it comes feeling in my limbs, a spark of electricity that seems to wake me up.
But only for a moment.
I slip out to the bathroom and run my wrist under the water. My eyelids are heavy. It takes effort to keep them open and watch the pink swirl down the drain. A Band-Aid and my watch in place, I drift back into my bedroom.
My phone sits facedown on my desk. It died yesterday, I think. It went quiet in the middle of a podcast about farming. I had to turn it upside down to hide how much it was lighting up. Notifications, maybe tags from that stupid gossip page. Texts from my friends, from Penn and Carter.
I don’t know if Oliver texted or called, but thinking about him makes the numbness return. It’s a blanket I draw around my shoulders to protect myself. It tightens around my limbs, slips up my spine.
That’s okay.
I crawl to my nest of blankets on the floor and curl into a ball, and I will everything away.