Page 144

I remember my mum screaming somewhere in the background. Reckless. Stupid. Countless variations of the same accusation.

The point is, I remember the hurt it caused me, not the actual words. I graduated from being the naughty kid to the reckless burden—the child whose wires were permanently loose.

Self-harm was frowned upon by society but is it really self- harm if I ended up getting a few cuts here and there while chopping vegetables?

Dad was contemplating my murder, while mum was busy scolding me—like usual. Good old days.

I don’t miss them.

When it became too often to pass as accidents, my mother hid every sharp object in my vicinity. At least that was something.

Though I suspect it had less to do with saving me than keeping me from bleeding all over the pristine white rug she insisted made this house look like a home.

When I first left the bathroom—after making shallow cuts on my inner thighs—on wobbly legs with a guilty look on my face, I feared Mum would snap at me. She didn’t.

It was definitely the rug. Not me.

That night, I sat at the dining table, eating lasagna with nothing but a blank canvas in my head. No noise. No memories clawing their way in.

No phantom hands reaching for me.

And it was perfect.

Perfect by the standards of a dysfunctional family that saw their daughter as nothing more than a burden.

But I don’t tell Sergei that.

“Why?” He says, pulling me closer to his chest while I contemplate lying to him.

“Because my parents made me feel worthless.” I mumble, sticking to half-truths.

“When w-was the last time…you hurt yourself?” His voice stutters, thick with emotions and I can only hang my head in response.

“Last night.” My voice is so low, I’m surprised it reaches his ear, because his body goes rigid beneath me.

When I received a text from him again, I lost all my composure.

Sex was the only thing grounding me, and with Sergei acting distant, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“I needed to purge it out of my skin, Sergei. I couldn’t help it.” I try to explain with shame lacing my words.

I wasn’t proud of what I did, but the need was crescive with every breath, a desperate reach for catharsis.

“Elara.” He whispers, his voice shaky and breaking as he tries to inhale but I don’t look up at him, feeling almost cowardly, I hide myself in the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, you are not weak, Sergei. You never were.” I lift my head to kiss his eyelids. “You are so strong, you stop my mind from spiralling.” I kiss his cheeks, his forehead. “You make me live in the present.” And his lips.

I sob for minutes, mourning the childhood that was torn from me—and the adulthood spent on edge, trapped inside my own head.

“You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted.” I admit, the words spilling out in a moment of weakness. “The only man I’ve ever kissed…and the only one I ever will.”

His heart pounds beneath me.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It makes something fragile bloom in my chest, a faint, disbelieving smile touching my lips.

“Only me?” he asks, almost like he doesn’t believe it.