Chapter Four
Present
I breathe heavily through my nose, the sound echoing softly in the room’s stillness.
My gaze drifts back to the mirror. The reflection staring back at me reveals a face etched with defeat and exhaustion, shadows clinging to my features.
I shake my head, dislodging a wave of frustration, then swiftly shut off the timer on my phone.
My fingers curl around the cool metal of the Zippo.
I squeeze it tightly in my hand, feeling the ridges press into my palm before I finally set it down on the counter with a soft clink.
I wince as I crouch to pull off my boxers.
Standing again, I glower at my reflection—my battered body, young yet brutally scarred.
I flex my right arm, eyes tracing the damage, lingering on the fire tattoos that snake along my arm and other parts of my body.
They’re entwined with faded remnants of old burns, representing the very thing that changed me.
These scars are a reminder of all I’ve lost and everything I will never deserve.
My thoughts drift back to that night. I was so certain I was going to die; after all, it felt like my time.
I should have perished along with my family in that house.
But Eric took that from me. I don’t hold it against him anymore.
I resented him at first, but as I grew older, I came to understand why he did it.
And as time continued, I realized that dying in that fire would have been the easy way out for me.
This is my punishment: living, but dead inside.
I step into the shower and turn on the water, letting the ice-cold liquid shock my body.
I twist it all the way to hot, shift to the side, and press my hands against the shower wall.
My wound screams in protest as the water grows hotter against my scorched skin.
I clamp my lips shut, stifling a soft gasp as the steam beats against the flayed skin.
Once I’m done, I pull out the first-aid kit I keep stored in the bathroom cabinet.
I take out the antibiotic cream, large gauze, and bandage wrap.
First, I lather on the antibiotic cream, applying a generous amount.
I don’t remember exactly when I started hurting myself this way.
It was many months after the fire, and after I had completely healed from the burns.
My mental state was all over the place, and the panic attacks were worse than ever.
The nightmares I had once managed to control resurfaced with a vengeance.
For a while, I would wake up soaked in sweat and shaking, expecting my mom to be sitting at the edge of my bed, ready to comfort me as she used to.
Instead, I faced an unseen ghost. Yet, some nights, I would wake partially, feeling the touch of familiar fingers brushing my face.
I know it was just my imagination, but those were the only nights I could sleep peacefully.
The voices returned, and the guilt was a silent killer.
I couldn’t shake it. I needed a new way to silence them while also paying for what I had caused.
I started slowly at first; I couldn’t concentrate or handle the pain initially.
First, I did ten seconds, then gradually increased the duration.
It was a learning process. It had become a painful addiction to the point where I wasn’t giving my skin enough time to heal before the next burn. This had led to a nasty skin infection.
I discovered that in the intervals between burns, it was crucial to allow my body ample time to recover from the wounds.
In the past, my skin would heal within a couple of weeks, but now the healing process takes a month or longer.
Some areas of my skin are now too scarred and damaged to repair fully.
The nerve endings have become permanently numbed, while others are overly sensitive, reacting sharply to the slightest touch.
The most challenging aspect was concealing the truth from Eric and the twins.
I kept my secret for quite some time, carefully avoiding any situation where I might need to take off my shirt.
I gravitated towards darker fabrics, the deep hues shielding what hid beneath.
They simply accepted my silence, believing it was my way of hiding the deepest scars left by the fire.
Yet, beneath the surface, I could sense their concern, the weight of unspoken questions hanging heavily in the air, even as they respected my boundaries and refrained from prying.
It was a delicate dance of pretense, leaving a lingering tension between us that I couldn’t shake.
I should have known Blake would eventually piece it all together.
A part of me felt relief that it was him, not Beck, who uncovered the truth.
Even though it pained him, he swore he would never tell a soul, and I held him to that dying promise.
Things had been tumultuous between Beck and me ever since the night of the fire.
I had shattered our bond, and she was caught in the aftermath of my reckless actions.
The thought of revealing my demons to her constantly gnawed at my insides.
I could never let her know my secret, it would break her in ways I could never forgive myself for.
But in the end, no matter how much I try to avoid it, that’s what I do—I hurt the ones I love.