Chapter 9
NATE (SENIOR YEAR, HIGH SCHOOL)
Istand in front of my bathroom mirror and stare at the vibrant shades of blue and purple painting the left side of my face.
I got home from the hospital thirty minutes ago and haven’t been able to move from this spot.
This is my life, enduring this endless cycle of pain and abuse.
Screaming for help, with no one to hear me.
This won’t end when I leave this place. There’s no escape, no one who can help me.
My mother stood by and watched the swing of his fist as it collided with my cheek.
The crunch was audible, and the pain was immediate.
She turned and walked away, shaking her head as if this was all some kind of inconvenience for her.
Nathaniel insisted I didn’t need to go to the hospital, but when it became noticeably difficult for me to open my mouth, he relented.
Zygomatic fracture of the left cheekbone.
This type of injury usually occurs after high impact trauma. Trauma like motor vehicle accidents, falls…assaults. On paper, I took a football to my face and tripped, landing cheek first on a rock.
If that rock was fist-shaped.
The fracture isn’t displaced, so I won’t need surgery. I’ll be on a soft-food diet and out of football practice until it heals. No football practice means more events with my father.
I continue to stare back at the man before me, my reflection no longer recognizable. Not because of the colorful skin that flaunts my shame, but because of the hollow emptiness in eyes that once held life.
I don’t see me.
I see deep shadows of indignity that have become a relentless weight on my chest. The ache in my core is far superior than the agony on the surface. This is who I am now. The bruises will fade, but the broken mess underneath will remain fragmented and defective.
The person created from my remains will rise from the ashes, only to carry the burden of my past far into my future. My unanswered calls for help will still feed my nightmares, and I won’t ever be free from the memories of a life I never asked to live.
I take a deep, stuttering breath and finally pull myself away from the mirror.
I close the bathroom door, subduing the temptation that burdens me often.
One that sits in the medicine cabinet and waits.
Waits for the day I’ve finally had enough.
The compulsion is overwhelming, and it would be so easy to enact the thoughts that frequent my mind.
My stomach hollows when I contemplate how much easier that path would be.
The end result wouldn’t be any different than my current state.
I live a void existence, surrounded by a nothingness so penetrating I can’t see or feel beyond it.
Until her.
I fall backward onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, the little jolt causing my cheek to ache.
The last eight weeks have been the most alive I’ve felt in years.
For once, I’m excited to wake up in the mornings, to put on that goddamn mask, and surround myself with the superficial flock that gathers in my presence.
Just to get a glimpse of her.
We don’t have classes together. We don’t even have lunch together.
But when I pass her in the halls, I make sure to brush my hand across her lower back and watch as her skin flushes from the touch.
She gives me her sweet, secretive smile—a smile she only gives to me—and I feel like I can take my first full breath of the day.
We’ve increased our “study sessions” to three times a week. Those additional days are essential because we spend most of our sessions with our lips attached to each other.
Not that I’m complaining.
She has a way of drowning out all of the noise.
When I’m with her, everything else vanishes.
My intrusive thoughts, that indescribable hollowness, it’s all gone.
I want to keep this feeling, and this girl, just for me for as long as I can.
I want to bottle it up and never let any of the darkness seep into what we have.
Not that I want to hide what she means to me. I would proudly show her off as mine. Because she is…she’s mine. I just don’t want to soil her with my family, with Nathaniel’s bullshit. I want to be far away from here before I tell the world that she’s mine.
I hear my phone ding in the distance. I know it’s her. I can always feel when it’s her. Whether she is near me or thinking about me, I somehow always know it. Right now, she’s asking where the hell I am. I was supposed to be at the library thirty minutes ago.
We always meet in the library after hours. The moment I walk in she hops out of her chair and jumps into my arms. It’s the best feeling in the world.
Not today, though.
Today, I would see her eyes take in the damage to my skin.
I would see the brightness dim under the burden of sympathy.
The lightness I feel when I am with her would become heavy, and I can’t hold up any more weight.
My arms would give up under the stress, and I would be crushed by the poisonous thoughts I try so hard to ignore.
I want to be a rock for Ellie. I don’t want her to watch me crumble.
I don’t want her to distrust my ability to keep her safe, to hold her up when she needs my strength.
I want her to see me as a man who is worth her love.
Worth her smiles. Because those smiles give me the breath I need on my darkest days.
I can’t give her this weak and defective version of myself. This isn’t how a man is supposed to be. Broken and battered, contemplating an ending to all the pain. If my father could hear my thoughts, he’d kill me himself.
I push myself up from my bed, ignoring my phone, and walk toward my window. I look out and see Emmy swimming laps in the pool. A small smile pulls at my lips. Much like Ellie, she has a way of making the darkest days brighten just a little.
Then I notice him.
He’s standing to the side, unnoticeable to Emmy as she swims back and forth.
He has a beer in his hand, which is never a good sign.
His eyes track her as she swims back and forth, and I feel my stomach lurch.
An unnerving feeling overwhelms me, one that I’ve never felt before.
Before I can think twice, I’m walking down the stairs and out the back door toward the pool.
“Emmy!” I yell. “Come inside and get your homework done before it gets too late.” She huffs at me and rolls her eyes as she climbs the stairs out of the pool.
She’s thirteen now, but I swear you’d think she was twenty.
I place myself in his line of vision as she walks toward the patio door, grabbing her towel on the way.
Once she’s covered, I turn to look at my father.
He’s staring at me as he takes a swig of his beer.
“Last I checked, I was her father…not you,” he slurs.
“Last I checked, fathers don’t leer at their teenage daughters,” I retort, anger outweighing self-preservation.
He gives me a drunken smile as he walks toward me.
I don’t even have time to brace before the beer bottle slams over my head and I fall into the patio table, the glass top breaking on impact.
My vision doubles, and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. I’m going to vomit. Or faint. Maybe both. I lift my hands to my head like it will rid me of the searing pain, but it leaves my abdomen wide open for his assault.
The first punch has me chasing air. The second has me spilling bile all over the patio deck. I fall to the ground, landing on top of the broken glass. I can feel the small slivers pierce my skin as I sink into the ground, hoping to pass out. The loss of consciousness would relieve the pain.
Please, let me faint.
Please, God…let me die.
That’s my last thought before a sheet of blackness covers my vision and I feel myself fade away.
I startle awake at the sound of dogs barking.
I feel chilled to the core, like my blood is frozen inside my veins.
Goosebumps line my flesh as I begin to involuntarily shiver.
I move to sit up, but the pain in my head has me nearly blacking out.
I try to control my breathing, but it’s hard to take a deep breath.
Broken rib.
Something I’ve felt more than once. Surprisingly, the frivolous cuts covering my arms and legs hurt the worst. It would almost be funny if I didn’t have to pull out all the glass.
I try to sit up again, and this time I’m successful. My head spins a little, but the dizziness subsides quickly. I take in my surroundings and realize it’s dark outside. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying out here, but all the lights in the house are off.
Everyone is in bed.
I stand up and fight a ripple of nausea as I make my way to the patio door.
Locked.
I climb over the bushes and round the corner, walking toward the front of the house. I find the hidden key between my mother’s owl statues and unlock the front door. I step inside, leaving the door wide open as I make my way to my room. I don’t have the energy to close it behind me.
I make it to my bathroom and startle at what I see in the mirror.
Dried blood mats my hair and covers my face and it looks like I shouldn’t have any left in my body.
There is blood dripping from my arms and legs, making a mess on the bathroom floor.
I lift my shirt to assess my stomach. A deep black contusion covers my chest all the way down to my hip, giving my skin an alien-like appearance.
I turn on the shower and step into my bedroom to grab a pair of boxers and a towel. I pass my phone and notice two missed messages. I pick it up before heading back to the bathroom and try to open it.
Facial recognition failed.
I type in my password instead and see that I have two missed messages and a missed phone call from Ellie.
Ellie: Hi Where are you? I’m waiting! Xo
Ellie: Nate, I’m getting worried. Where are you?
The last message was two hours ago.
I feel the tears burn my eyes as I read her messages. I’ve never had anyone worry about me before. I’m overwhelmed. It feels good, and it feels wrong. She shouldn’t have to worry about me. No one should. No one does.
She does.
I don’t deserve it. I am exactly who he says I am. Fucking look at me! I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. Pathetic. Weak. Worthless. I’ve heard it my whole life and now I am finally seeing it. She deserves better. I deserve less.
I’m not strong. I’m not worthy of someone like her.
I let out the sob I’ve been holding in for months, releasing all of the emotions I’ve been struggling to keep hidden.
I let the hate and the anger overwhelm me.
I let the depression settle deep in my bones.
It’s freeing. It’s painful. It gives me the courage I couldn’t find before now. The courage to take the next step.
Hopeless.
That’s what I feel.
I shut my bathroom door and flip the lock. I open the medicine cabinet and pull out the bottle of Xanax I stole from my mother. The bottle I’ve stared at every day for the last six months.
Until her.
I ignore that thought and unscrew the top.
I dump the contents into my shaky hand and take a deep breath, letting the tears fall down my cheeks.
The scrapes on my skin burn from the salty liquid.
It’s a good pain, though, because I know it’s a pain that’s about to end.
I close my eyes and I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
A sudden wave of fear overwhelms me.
I don’t want to do this.
I need a reason to stay.
Give me a fucking reason to stay.
Nothing. No sign from some high power telling me I’m needed here, wanted here. I look down at the white pills in my hand, shoving aside the fear. It’s going to be ok now. I lift my hand to my mouth, ready to leave the pain behind.
A soft knock echoes on my bathroom door.
“Nate, baby? It’s…it’s me.”