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So much that it scares him.
Having it…
Only to lose it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
AGE 17, AUGUST
I should’ve known better…
My vision blurs.
Ears ring.
I crumple the rejection letter into a ball, and shoot off the bed, chucking the culmination of my crushed dreams at the trash can next to my desk.
It coasts the rim…
And falls to the floor.
Can’t even manage that, a familiar insidious voice whispers.
My jaw ticks. Fists clench at my sides. “Pieces” by Sum 41 is blasting from the stereo on my dresser, but I barely hear it.
“Fuck this.”
Next thing I know, I’m storming across my room and into the adjoining bathroom that connects Izzy’s room and mine, kicking the door shut behind me, muffling the music.
I don’t bother locking it. Or the one to Izzy’s room that is already closed. Not like anyone’s home anyway.
It’s Saturday night, and Izzy and Mason are doing some kind of talent exhibition at the Arts Center for local high school students. I opted to drive myself and meet everyone there closer to when it starts. Last I checked, I still had another hour, give or take.
My heart pumps heavily, surging to my ears, drowning out every other sound now but a whooshing thud-thud thud-thud.
My reflection in the mirror over the sink is a black and golden blond blur. Dropping down on my knees, I pull out the bottom drawer, and rustle through all the shit that’s collected in here over the years, until I finally find my stash, tucked away in an empty Altoids container.
Popping it open, my nostrils flare with the scent of cinnamon still clinging to the tin—my mouth watering. Just under it, a barely-there whiff of weed.
I pluck out one of the joints I rolled the other night, and slip it between my lips. I’m about to slam the small tin box shut, and take my ass outside to smoke it when my fingers pause, my gaze catching, lingering on the razor blade glinting back at me from underneath the two remaining joints.
“Don’t do it,” I mutter, and even to my own ears, it sounds like a dare. A taunt.
Bitterness runs through my veins, flaring my nose.
I purse my lips around the joint.
It’s been months since I cut. I don’t do it often, not like I used to, back when I was still in school and my anxiety and anger and self-hatred was at an all-time high.
When I was a kid, and this first started, I didn’t know any better. Not really. Not to the full degree.
But I do now, even if I have a hard time understanding why it’s so taboo. Which is what makes reasoning with myself in moments like this so hard. And why I can’t seem to just throw it out, whether weeks or months go by in between.
What can I say? I’ve grown attached.
Some people set fire to their insides. I prefer to see mine in a thin stream of blood, drawn by my own hand.
It’s a secret, like my art. Like the name carved into my heart. It’s mine.
