Page 23 of I’m The Worst

The memories blur. The images mix. I can’t breathe.

I need to get out.

But how can I escape what’s inside my head?

A sob breaks from my chest, and I start to struggle again. My wrists burn, the zip ties biting deep. I keep working them, twisting, grinding them against my skin until I feel the sharp sting of a cut. Warm blood slicks my wrists. I use it, moving carefully, sliding the tie until it loosens⁠—

And then I slip free.

I scramble off the bed, my legs barely holding me up as I stagger to the closet, yanking the door open. My hands fumble through the dark, searching for anything to put on.

I’m leaving.

I can’t stay here.

I find a pair of sneakers in the back. I grab them, pulling on some joggers and a sweatshirt, then shove my feet into the shoes.

I can do this.

The room tilts, my vision swimming, but I force myself to move. I stumble to the door, one hand braced against the wall. I don’t know where I’m going; I just know I can’t stay here.

The hallway is silent and dark.

The chill in the house seeps into my bones, but I don’t stop. I move down the corridor on unsteady legs, one hand dragging along the wall to keep myself upright. My pulse hammers in my skull as I peer into the living room.

The couch is empty.

Relief and dread twist together in my gut.

A large parka hangs on a hook by the door. I yank it down so hard it almost tears, my fingers fumbling as I shove my arms into the sleeves. I can barely feel them. My hands don’t feel like mine anymore.

My mind is screaming.

Open the door! Run! Get out! Maybe death will find you. Maybe the cold will numb the pain.

I can’t go back home like this.

How am I supposed to stand in front of my father? Let him look at me and see what I’ve become? How do I look my brother in the eyes and pretend I’m still whole?

My stomach churns violently.

No one will ever love me again. Who would ever want this?

I press my forehead to the door, breaths fogging the wood.

I am ruined.

The cold won’t ask questions. The cold won’t look at me with disgust. The cold won’t remember what I sounded like when I screamed. Maybe it will hurt. Maybe it will burn. But it won’t feel like this.

I wrap my hand around the doorknob.

Better to die a frozen corpse than live as a broken, disgusting mess.

The door creaks as it opens, and the frigid air slams into me. My breath catches, but I don’t hesitate. I bolt, my feet sinking into the deep snow as I push forward, the storm swallowing me whole.

Wind howls around me, biting at my exposed skin. Snow lashes against my ankles, sharp as glass. My lungs ache with every ragged gasp, my throat raw from the icy air.

But I don’t stop.