44. Sydney
forty-four
sydney
Banging wakes me up.
I lift my head, sleep trying to drag me back down. The banging is distant. Disorienting. It doesn’t stop, even when I smother my head under another pillow.
It just goes on and on and on, until I climb to my feet.
I creep toward my apartment door, check the peephole, and undo the lock. Pull it open. Come face-to-face with my father.
“Are you sick?” The worry in his voice is too much.
The emotion wells up in my throat, and before I can stop it, I start crying.
The first sob that wracks through me, surprisingly strong, unsteadies me.
He hugs me, then seems to just… take charge. I don’t even need to tell him that I haven’t been out of my room, haven’t eaten anything of substance, haven’t taken care of myself in days. He might know from the smell alone. Or the condition of my hair, slicked up in a bun on top of my head.
Once my tears abate, he urges me to the bathroom with an order to shower.
Going through the motions is exhausting. I sit after I wash my hair. I stay sitting for the conditioner, leaning forward and rinsing my hair upside down under the spray. And I consider staying there longer, but the water turns cold.
I wrap myself in a towel and sit on the floor instead.
There’s a knock, and then the door cracks open.
When I don’t say anything, it swings inward wide enough for Perri to stick her head in. She seems to consider something.
The door closes.
When she returns, she has clothes in her arms. She sets them aside and perches on the closed toilet lid. She picks up a lock of my wet hair and combs through it. Without saying anything, she first combs my whole head, squeezes out the excess water, then brushes through it again.
My eyes close sometime during it.
When the hair dryer starts, I flinch. Her cool fingers touch my bare shoulder for a second, as if to steady me, then she continues. She pats the clothes and moves the pile closer to me, and she leaves me alone again.
Slowly, I unfold. I touch my dry, warm, clean hair. I pull on the shirt, underwear, jeans. A sweatshirt over the top. Tall, thick socks. The bra she picked tends to itch at my spine, and I don’t really care enough for one. That’s the only thing I leave behind.
“There she is,” Perri says.
I shuffle out into the open, curling my arms around my stomach. I clear my throat and will my voice to work.
“What day is it?” I ask.
Her expression stays smooth. “Thursday.”
Oh.
I don’t bother to tell her I thought it was Wednesday.
Somehow I lost a day?
“Do you…” Perri frowns. “You know what we need?”
I shake my head.
“Ice cream.”
Oh.
“Yes?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Where did Dad go?”
“He was taking out the trash. His stress response is to start cleaning. But we can intercept him on the way down.” She pulls out boots for me and a coat. The coat I wore?—
“Not that one,” I croak.
She glances down at it, her brow furrowing. But she puts it away without question and finds another one from the closet. I shrug it on, followed by the boots. Everything still feels… rote. I’m doing this all through muscle memory, while my brain sluggishly tries to catch up.
We catch Dad on the second floor, and he smiles at me. Without complaint, he turns around, and we all go downstairs together. His truck is parked just a little ways down the street. I climb into the back, buckling in and drawing my legs up again.
The drive to the ice cream shop is short, and I hop out on Perri’s side. I pat my pockets, suddenly realizing I don’t have money, but she just loops her arm through mine and pulls me onto the sidewalk.
“Our treat,” she says.
I stare at the menu for too long. I don’t know what I order, if I even open my mouth or make a decision. It seems like I blink and I’m seated at a small table with a cup of mint ice cream in front of me. I take a bite, anticipating the burst of flavor.
It more tastes like ash than anything.
My stomach churns. Perri and Dad don’t say anything about it. They’re conversing about the upcoming storm that’s supposed to dump a few inches of snow on Framingham. I file that away for later just in case.
I eat half of the cup, forcing down mouthfuls until I can’t anymore, and slide the cup away.
“We can bring the rest back to your apartment,” Dad says. “I’ll get a lid.”
We return to the apartment. I shuffle to the freezer and put the cup inside. My apartment is clean. I didn’t realize it before, but the counters are clear and wiped, there are no dishes in the sink. It smells vaguely of cleaning products.
“Thank you,” I say.
“We’re worried about you,” Dad replies. “I think you should come with us this weekend.”
“To…?”
“We’re playing Michigan,” he says. “Two games. One tomorrow, one Sunday.”
There was a reason I couldn’t go, but it has slipped away. All of it has. I nod because it’s the answer he’s looking for, and Perri squeezes my shoulders.
“We bought you a plane ticket,” Perri admits. “I was hoping you would say yes and I got ahead of myself.”
I force a smile. “Thank you.”
“I’ll pick you up at noon,” she says. She kisses my cheek.
I hug Dad.
When they leave, I lock the door behind them and slink back to my room. My clean room. All the extra blankets from the floor are folded on my desk chair. The main one is on my bed, which has fresh sheets.
I pick up the knife from my dresser and sit on the edge of the bed.
My watch stayed on in the shower—thankfully waterproof—and it kept the Band-Aid underneath dry, too. Now, I push the watch band higher and peel off the bandage.
The one cut has multiplied.
I run my finger over them. They ache a little. Itch, too, as the original has scabbed over.
I’m going to Michigan with Dad, Perri, and the whole hockey team.
I missed a week of class.
I’m not just slowly losing my mind—I think I’ve actually lost it.
The knife balances on my knee. I flip it open, and the anticipation is a heady rush. I can’t afford to lose my mind. Not now. Not when tomorrow, I’ll be thrown to the Vipers.
I drag the blade across my wrist and groan.
Why do I feel relief instead of pain? Why do I welcome the blood that doesn’t just well up in beads but runs down the curve of my wrist?
I cup my hand under it before it can drip onto the rug and stain. I watch it, breathing in hard through my nose and out through my mouth. A cord loosens in my chest. The noose around my throat slackens.
This is like meditation, but I can’t look away. I smear the blood toward my hand, examining the cut. It’s a little deeper than the rest.
Maybe .
It could be worse.
If I wanted to kill myself, I would go up. I’d split the vein wide open and the flow would be unstoppable. Cut arteries bleed so much worse than the few veins I slashed.
This is pain management. As in, I’m managing with pain.
When the bite of the cut dims to a dull, pulsing ache, I clean it up. Replace the bandage, then my watch band. It hurts worse with both covering it.
But I can breathe.
I just have to keep breathing.