13. Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
T he next week, Carson did something she never thought she could ever do: make an appointment with a therapist.
For a place meant to help people with their mental health, the building was depressing. Square with sharp corners and stucco the color of rice paper was smeared all over the exterior. It reminded her of a box, beige and boring. A single glass door with vinyl lettering read Granite Dells Center. Carson rolled her eyes at the brown awning that hung over the door, disproportionate to the building. Whoever the plodding architect was obviously hadn’t cared or had an eye for style.
It wasn’t the stodgy architecture that stopped her from entering, though. Apprehension. That was the reason why she had been standing in the parking lot staring at the building for the past thirty minutes.
The night Jax confided in her about his toxic relationship with alcohol, Carson knew her world with Jax and her world with bleeding skin could never mesh. Before, she could cut, then live her life perfectly normal. Her self-harm had become so natural that for two years, since she had started self-harming, she had balanced the two lifestyles perfectly: odious, then composed.
Now Carson dreaded any opportunity to self-harm because she was starting to understand the consequences. The once small, gray cloud that had hung over her, easily ignored, now thundered like the great monsoons of the western desert. Clapping bolts of lightning struck around her while torrents of falling, hurricane-like rain threatened to drown her. The almighty storm loomed above Carson, threatening to expose her hideousness to Jax. To Raegan and Hunter. To the world.
Even more exhausting was the cycle of trying to stop but miserably failing. Why couldn’t Carson just quit? What she thought was a simple demand of herself seemed to be against the laws of nature itself. Hot tears would roll down her cheeks whenever she implored herself to stop.
To. Just. Stop.
Those attempts always ended with new additions to her body.
If only Carson could slice all the way through her skin, through the muscle and bone, and cut her hands off completely, she could finally find relief.
The guilt of her self-harm continued to fester, eating away at her from the inside out. She felt as despicable on the inside as she looked on the outside. Before, it hadn’t mattered as much that she was self-destructing. Now, the thought of losing Jax because she cut herself was excruciatingly unbearable.
She had to do something.
A middle-aged woman stepped out of the office. Carson went taut for a second, thinking it was the therapist, looking for her, wondering why she was late to her appointment. The lady strolled into the parking lot and slipped into a silver Subaru. Faded Save the Dells and I love my dog! stickers sat crooked on the back bumper.
Carson stood there for another minute. Then five. Then ten. Some people went in. More people went out. The door was locked. The parking lot lamps flickered on. The sun grew tired of waiting for her and fell behind Granite Mountain.
Yet she didn’t move. She didn’t know why she couldn’t move. Carson peered down to see if her feet had fused to the pavement. They hadn’t. This was all her. Why wouldn’t she go in? So many why’s. She started to grow weary from asking herself why all the time.
Finally, she gave up. But before she reversed out of her spot, Carson promised herself she would try again.