Chapter 20
One two three four five six—
Alissa isn’t next to me. She isn’t behind me, about to pass me. She isn’t following me out to the parking lot, asking what’s wrong, what she can do to help.
I lose count. Have to start again.
One two three four—
Why am I even here? Because I don’t want to go home and sit in my room and cry? I attacked my classmates. I abandoned my teammates. Ash doesn’t want me around. And I can’t get on CoH.
Fuck, fuck, what step am I on?
One two—
My mind jumps forward and backward the way it did on Saturday when I was too high, but this is worse because there’s no drug that caused it. I can’t wait this out. It won’t end.
I get in my car with only my keys and my phone and my wallet. Leave my bag, my schoolwork, everything else. I start to cry. I can’t stop that, either. I’m going to cry forever. I’m held together by staples and Scotch tape. The slightest thing rips me open.
I drive to the gas station. I don’t plan to go there, but that’s where I end up. I get out and cross the empty field to the woods and Moss River. Maybe there’s something I can do here. Some purpose I can serve.
Do you think any of this matters?
How could it? Alissa isn’t here. I’m a failure. What’s the point of struggling anymore?
The river is not as high or as fast as it was a month ago.
The rocks downstream are dark where the water used to hit.
I’ve stopped crying, but I know the need could come back at any moment.
I don’t know why I’m here, really. Of course there’s no purpose for me.
There’s nothing to find. Even if I’d been here when her body had floated down the river, she was probably already dead. What is the point?
What is the point of me?
One, two, three, four, five steps down into the water. Pebbles slide under my sneakers. Six, seven, eight nine steps until the water is over my ankles. It’s freezing. Ten, eleven, twelve steps and it’s sliding up over my calves, starting to tug at me.
Is this what Alissa felt like? Cold, worthless, like the world would be better off if she was gone?
I sink into a crouch. The river rushes over my knees, my hips. I gasp. The cold severs the string of my thoughts. For a moment, there’s only a cold river and a warm sun, birds calling in the trees, and cars in the distance. And in that moment of clarity, a rational voice breaks through.
Are you really going to die?
Maybe. Yes. Wouldn’t it be better if I did?
The world stills. There it is. The thought. It has entered my mind in clear words, not just in feelings or images.
I could kill myself. I could do it whenever I like.
Will I?
A new feeling ripples through me, lancing me like the iciness of the water. It’s more instinct than emotion, a knee-jerk reaction.
I shove my hands into the river, sink my fingers into mud and rocks and silt. Freezing pain shoots up my arms.
No.
I do not want to end. I don’t know if there’s anything on the other side, and I don’t want to find out. Not yet. Not here. Not now. But I’m teetering—hurt, wounded, mentally bleeding out. If things continue like this, if I crack again, maybe that will change.
My hands start to go numb, so I scoop handfuls of rocks and river silt and punch the riverbed, over and over again, splashing my shirt and face with freezing water.
I don’t feel entirely human, but this is what I need to do to stay alive.
The only thing I know or care about is that I will not let myself die here.
What is worthlessness? I must sleep and eat and breathe and hunt.
I was made for action and movement. That is all I have to do.
That is all I can allow myself to think.
I rise up, bare my teeth, and scream.
I get out of the water. I walk, soaking wet and shivering, back to my car. I grab my phone and dial the only number I know by heart.
She picks up even though she must be busy at work.
“Mom?” I say. “Can you come home?”