45. Sydney
forty-five
sydney
I can’t keep using my wrist.
Standing naked in front of my mirror, I silently contemplate my body.
I’ve lost weight.
A lot of weight . It’s been a week? The cut from Carter on my breast is almost gone, just a few flakes of scabs that I pick at with my nail. The bruises have faded. The one from Bear on my neck is gone entirely.
I thought the physical remnant finally healing would make me feel better now that there’s not a constant reminder of it. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Now, it all sits inside my chest.
My bag is packed. I just need to pick out an outfit for the plane… preferably something I can just wear to the game. And maybe sleep in. If Dad and Perri hadn’t already seen me in these sweatpants, I would keep them on.
I don’t know if they have plans for Saturday, but I hope I can just hide in my room. I’ll be under parental supervision, so it’s not like I can do anything. I don’t even want to do anything.
All this time, my phone has stayed off. I found it on the charger after my dad and Perri left, but I turned it off without unlocking it. The last thing I need is for all those negative messages to cut me open more.
Speaking of that…
I shift my weight. Considering.
It’s wrong to self-harm. It’s so fucking wrong, but I can’t stop. I’ve become addicted to the release that comes along with it. Sometimes, I’m so out of it, I don’t realize my mind is gone until I’m sitting in the tub dripping blood.
That alone should scare me, but it doesn’t.
Once I’m dressed, I sit on the floor with a roll of paper towels beside me. I fold up the cuff of my leggings. I sit cross-legged and look at the inner ankle of my right leg. The skin is nearly translucent.
This is right.
The first prick of the blade is unexpectedly vivid. I bow forward, my face scrunched. I paint another stroke, slicing into my skin.
Earlier, I decided on three.
The third is the deepest and highest. It bleeds the most, and I unroll a handful of paper towels to put beneath my leg.
I can breathe again.
I’d hate myself if I didn’t desperately need oxygen.
Eventually, I blot at the cuts and put a thicker bandage over them. I pull the cuff of my leggings down, then add socks.
Easy .
I leave the knife on my dresser and grab my bag. I force a smile a few times just to prove that I can, although none touch my eyes. I try one more time, my grin wide enough to split my face, then let out a sigh.
It doesn’t matter, does it?
At noon, I meet Perri outside. I hoist my suitcase into her trunk, and we drive the twenty minutes to the airport. The rest is a blur: going through security, getting a coffee and water bottle— both for her, although she gets me one of each, too—and finding our gate. We sit off to the side, facing the huge windows.
She reads on her phone while I watch the planes.
“Sydney?”
I glance at her.
“I’m not sure what triggered this,” she says carefully. “But if you need to talk through anything, I’d gladly listen.”
“Thanks.”
That doesn’t seem to appease her. She continues, “If I’m too close—or, I don’t know, if being your stepmom makes things weird—then we can find a therapist.”
I nod. “I… I don’t know what I’d say.”
She considers that. “Maybe it’s not what you would say, but what they would ask.”
“Oh.” I hesitate.
Spilling secrets to a stranger is something my mother always warned against. But I’m pretty sure every negative thought about my dad and how he would act after he married Perri—a gold-digging whore, according to Mom—was wrong.
Which means maybe she was wrong against talking to someone about mental health.
Of course, she didn’t call it that. She called them “issues” and expected people to be able to sort out their shit without help.
“Yeah,” I finally say. “I’ll try it.”
She reaches over and gently squeezes my arm. “I’ll find someone. And if they’re not good, we’ll try someone else. Until we meet someone you like.”
That in and of itself sounds daunting, but I make a noise of assent anyway. I don’t want to disappoint her so quickly after agreeing, although I can just picture my energy being sucked down out of my feet.
She glances at her phone. “Oh good, your father’s here.”
“What?”
“Your father,” she repeats. “They just got through security.”
No.
No, no, no.
My breath comes short and fast, and I bolt to my feet. Why did I think I could come with them and not see the team?
Why didn’t I think of that?
The oxygen in the room is instantly sucked away. My heart leaps into a sprint, and my throat closes.
I slide from my seat to the floor. My name floats toward me, like someone’s calling it. Calling me. But I can’t quite hear through the rushing noise in my ears. I bury my face in my arms, tucking myself into as small a ball as possible.
I pinch the insides of my biceps as hard as I can, twisting the skin. I release and do it again and again, in rapid succession. I need it to filter out some of the noise, but the panic is nowhere near done with me.
Perri is talking. Not to me. Her words are directed overhead. “I don’t know?—”
“We can call paramedics,” a stranger suggests.
My lungs scream for air. I barely resist the urge to claw at the rope tightening around my throat, instead pinching my arm again. I dig my nails in and finally get the right hit of pain.
Panic attack , my brain supplies. Not all panic attacks are created equal. This one has me up against a wall in my mind, flickering evil sensations at me. The rope. Hands. Blade. Choking.
Helplessness.
“You’re okay,” Perri soothes. She rubs my back. “They want to call the paramedics, but we just need to get you breathing. Can you look at me?”
I turn my head slightly. One eye takes her in.
“Like this, okay? Follow me.” She exaggerates her breathing. A long inhale, an even longer exhale.
I watch her chest rising and falling and feel my lungs respond, subconsciously mimicking her. The rope around my throat loosens inch by inch, and I finally uncurl. I lean back against the seat and wipe my eyes, then the rest of my face.
“Something happened,” she guesses. “With someone on the team?”
I hesitate, then nod.
“Who?”
My lips press together. That’s one thing I can’t admit to her. If she knows everything that happened with Penn and Oliver, Dad would punish them. Maybe even kick them off the team. And everyone would blame me.
I won’t be a snitch again. I can’t.
I don’t think I could survive the school turning against me for a second time.