Chapter 2
Sixteen years old
2
The blade fell from my grip, landing next to the discarded letters on the floor as I watched the line of blood dotting my fair skin and trickling across the surface of my forearm. I held my breath, waiting for the sting of pain. The one I couldn’t seem to run away from. Something that would remind me I was alive. In the last three years, I had become an addict. To physical pain.
Every time the memory of who I’d lost took over my thoughts, it twisted my insides. Made me vulnerable. I couldn’t think straight, disconnected from my emotions, but dying to feel something. Anything.
Blood dripped onto the floor, and I followed the path, hypnotized by the pattern.
Still, I felt nothing. Blank.
My head spun, and I blinked.
My gaze drifted to my arm, mentally begging for the aftershock to kick in. For the physical pain to erase the mental one.
After what seemed like forever, the twinge on my forearm, just below the crease of my elbow, finally hit me. Oxygen returned to my lungs as I took a deep inhale, escaping the prison of numbness that had suffocated me seconds ago.
My eyes flitted to the mirror above my dresser. I looked haunted. Shadows undermined my eyes. And sadness—I wished it would vanish—lingered in my irises.
The first time I used a blade was the summer after my thirteenth birthday. At the time, I had no idea how to cope with my grief. Until a girl from my gym class shared how she relieved the paralyzing emotions that sometimes crippled her after her mother’s death.
She put into words the feelings that were drowning me inside. The ones I refused to talk about because they hurt too much. Her words resonated with me. For once, they made sense to the confused and heartbroken girl I was back then.
In a way, grief broke me. It made me weak. And ashamed of myself when I let my emotions rule me. The ones I tried to conceal deep inside for as long as I could remember. Until I couldn’t bury them anymore. That was the moment I started cutting myself. Because in a twisted manner, it helped relieve the suffering from the crater lodged deep inside me. And to soothe my troubled mind.
That summer, my favorite person in the world had been taken from me.
In the most hurtful way.
She didn’t get a chance to fight back. That chance was stolen from her.
She didn’t have the opportunity to say her goodbyes. No one had heard her last words.
She had been forced to put all those dreams of hers to rest. Forever. We would never visit Paris together. Nor would we ever be roommates once in college. She never came to visit me that summer, and I never met all her friends.
Three years later, all those memories still haunted my nightmares. Sometimes. Most times.
I lost not only her that day, but also a part of myself. And the people I considered to be second parents. They all disappeared from my life. And I had no idea if I’d see them again someday. I knew it was for my own good. That they stayed away. I was suffering. So lost in my own pain that just the idea of seeing them was enough to send me back spiraling. But the realization didn’t hurt any less.
Eyes brimming with tears, my heart fractured in my chest. I hated everything about being me right now. I was failing myself. Again. In so many ways. My teeth dug into my lower lip as I swallowed the sobs about to wreck me.
Harming myself wasn’t a habit of mine. I had only done it seven times in the past. When the pain became unbearable and too hard to hide, when I felt like I was falling down the rabbit hole, it helped me remember I was still here. Alive. And that all those chances she didn’t have were still waiting for me.
“I miss you,” I said to a picture of us that we’d taken on my eleventh birthday. Wearing matching blue polka-dot dresses, both of us grinning at the camera. The last one we celebrated together.
Dizziness filled me, and for an instant, I thought I would faint.
The cut should have already started clotting by now. Instead, a thick film of blood covered my skin, oozing down my forearm.
My hand clamped onto my desk, my body growing weaker by the second.
Ohmygod, what have I done?
How deep did I cut this time?
It was usually only a surface scratch, but right now it felt to be much deeper than that. My fingers shook as I wiped the mess off my skin, trying to stop the bleeding.
My bedroom whirled around me.
Trying to stay calm, I fixed my gaze on the photo. Could she see me hurting from wherever she was? If she were here, she would be so disappointed in me. She loved life. Always cheerful and dancing around for the smallest of things. Everything gave her joy. Thinking happy thoughts. And befriending everyone.
My eyes darted to the injury I’d inflicted upon my body. Chills worked through me. I didn’t wanna die. Just the thought scared the shit out of me. I wanted to live.
I watched my forearm. “Please, blood, stop. I’m sorry.” Tears burned the back of my eyes. My heart did some awkward jump in my chest. Tremors shook me.
How did I end up here? Again?
The cut stung, and pain radiated from the wound.
Sadness wrapped around me, suffocating every piece of my being.
I needed to do better. Be better.
I hated feeling like I had no grip on my own life.
I was done being sad. And miserable. I was done wreaking pain upon myself, thinking it would help. I had to take back control of my life. For me. For her. She wouldn’t want to see me like this. Broken and suspended in time. Everything hurt so bad. Inside and out. Blood trickled down my arm. I was getting light-headed. Grief seemed like a weight, crushing me. I needed to fight. For both of us. She wasn’t given the chance to reach for her dreams. Why was I forfeiting mine? It sounded selfish to waste a life when hers had been stolen. She would tell me to fight back. Yeah, she certainly wouldn’t want me to drown and give up.
Using the heel of my hand to put pressure on the wound, I let my sobs out. I squeezed my arm in a vice. The bleeding wouldn’t stop.
Shame filled me. I had let the letters get to me. I hated the idea I hadn’t been strong enough to deal with the emotions today with a clear mind.
Tears drenched my face, and I used my shoulders to clear my foggy vision.
I needed my mom.
With slow and unsteady steps, I staggered toward the kitchen where my parents were making breakfast. I had draped a black T-shirt over my arm to conceal the result of my actions. A chill crawled up my back. Cold sweat pearled on my forehead. Suddenly, I felt so tired.
The smell of bacon hit my nose first. Followed by the crisp aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
Dad stood with the frying pan in his hand, listening to my little brother Collin’s retelling of his last soccer game, while Mom was busy pouring caffeine into mugs. I could hear them, but it was hard to understand what they were saying. Like I was standing in some sort of bubble, far away from them. The numbness I felt inside was now spreading to my physical body.
I tried to move forward but was paralyzed, my feet heavy.
My body overheated. As if lava was traveling in my bloodstream. Seconds later, my teeth chattered when the heat was replaced by cold shivers.
Bracing myself and doing my best to not collapse, I neared them. Black dots danced in my vision. Breathing became harder. My pulse pounded in my head.
“Morning, Miss Sunshine,” Dad called out when his eyes landed on me, the carefree grin drawn on his lips slowly dissolving. Worry swam in his eyes.
I stood there with drenched cheeks, holding my arm tight and wishing for the bleeding to stop. The pain to leave. And the fog filling me to recede.
I wished the wound would heal.
The pan dropped from his hand. Mom seemed to be alerted by the ruckus because she turned around at once. A gasp passed her lips, and her eyes rounded when she looked at me. In seconds, they were both standing by my side.
“What happened?” my father asked, his strong arms enveloping me and helping me stay upright as a new surge of dizziness made my head spin. “Are you hurt?”
Time slowed down.
Once again, I heard their voices, but they sounded distant.
I saw their faces, mere inches from mine, but they looked to be miles away from here.
Dad lifted me in his arms. I buried my face in his chest, my safe place, while he carried me to the living room and sat me on the sofa, my hand still clamped tight over the T-shirt covering the wound on my forearm.
“Ava, talk to us,” my mother urged, kneeling before me. Her fingers combed my hair back as her eyes roamed over my face. “What happened?” Her attention drifted to my T-shirt-covered arm, and she asked a silent question as she stared at me.
I shook my head, never releasing the pressure on the slit across my flesh. My gaze was stuck to the corner of the chevron-patterned rug underneath the coffee table. I refused to admit what I had done. But I also knew I had to tell her how bad it was. Another wave of exhaustion hit me. The stickiness of the blood made it through the cotton fabric.
Dad sat next to me, carefully removing the piece of clothing around my arm. His eyes widened, overflowing with worry as he took in the wound.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, unable to look at any of them.
“She needs stitches,” I heard him tell my mother.
More shame grew roots inside me, and I mumbled, “For…for a moment…I…I missed her and wanted to be with her.” I swallowed the constriction in my throat. “I found the last letters… And life seemed unfair. I don’t want to be hurt every time I think about what happened. I can’t do this anymore.”
His arms fastened around me, holding me closer. His lips descended to the top of my head. “It’s okay. We’ll get you more help, okay? We’ll figure it out. I’m sorry, baby. We’re here.”
In a heartbeat, Dad was bandaging my forearm, Mom providing him with gauze and tapes from the first aid kit. The entire time, I rested my head on my father’s chest, fighting the sleepiness invading me.
“Ava, put pressure on it,” he said while he secured the bandage with the last piece of medical-grade tape.
With my eyes closed, I could hear my mother’s whisper. “Okay, I’ll drive Collin to the Jensens’. I’ll meet you at the clinic.” She kissed my forehead. “I love you, honey.”
I was lifted from the couch, and seconds later, I felt myself lying in the backseat of the car.
My lids stayed close the entire ride. I refused to see the hurt on my father’s face as I felt the weight of his gaze through the rearview mirror. None of it was his fault. Or my mom’s.
Growing up, I just happened to be an expert at masking my pain. And my feelings. Instead of talking about it, I would plug music into my ears and escape to another world where I was safe. And nothing could hurt me.
My parents were my anchors. And I knew if I opened up to them, they would help me through this ripping pain affecting me. This void I sometimes felt inside. They did save me once. Could they save me a second time?
Soon, exhaustion won the battle, and my mind took me far away from here. The last thing I heard was my father’s panicked voice saying, “Ava, wake up. Stay with me. Come on, Miss Sunshine, open your eyes,” while his arms lifted me from the backseat, and everything went black.