Page 90 of Was I Ever Here

I’m not sure why I even open this particular social media app, like my fingers have a mind of their own, choosing for me. I’ve avoided going on it for months now.

I don’t even know why I still have the app on my phone, the feed full of memories from my past. Old friends and family updating each other on their lives when I’d rather disappear from their minds forever. I’m as dead as River according to my non-activity, and I want to keep it that way.

But like an apparition, the feed opens in front of my eyes, and the first thing I see is my mother.

I was having such a good night…

My mood sours immediately, my smile turns to dust. I realize then that the pictures I’m looking at have been taken at River’s memorial, the one my mother organized and demanded I attend.

I peek over my screen making sure Byzantine isn’t privy to my reaction to all this. I can’t help but let the quicksand of my guilt overtake me as I sink into obsessing over what my extended family must think of me. As if River would give two shits about this memorial.

The comments under the photos make my lips curl. They’re full of support and love for my mother as if she’s the best care-taker to ever exist—and not the neglectful and cold parent we grew up with.

My intoxication is muddying my senses and eradicating all clear reasoning. I begin to boil for all the times I wasn’t allowed to express my anger towards her. I rage silently knowing she will never acknowledge how bad she treated River and I.

I did my best, wasn’t that enough?I can still hear her say.

No. It wasn’t.

My immediate reaction is to hide all this from the man sitting quietly next to me. I don’t even know why but it’s second nature, the alcohol muddling my thoughts further and I can’t help myself. I don’t even consider the other option, that maybe Byzantine would want to be there for me right now. Instead, I shut down, like turning a knob on a static radio.

I go quiet, my mind shutting down.

Except for one small seed, planted by years of needing some kind of release for all the suffocating anger that’s never had any real outlet. I already know what I’m about to do even before the thought is fully formed in my head.

“You okay?” Byzantine mutters beside me and I quickly plaster on a smile and shove my phone in my purse, leaning over to kiss him—and ultimately distract him.

It works.

When we get to his place, I go through the motions. I watch myself get ready for bed and slide under the covers and wait for Byzantine to find me. We have sex and I’m barely there, but I pretend and he must be drunker than I thought because he doesn’t notice and I’m so relieved.

Later, he curls around me and falls asleep, and I wait. I try to force my body to relax, my lip silently trembling, a heavy tear falling down my face while the void quietly folds itself around me. I count the seconds until his breath turns steady and he falls even deeper asleep.

My obsession is itching at the edge of my mind like a leech thirsty for blood.

I’m spiraling.

I know I am.

But this pain I’m feeling is too intense to control. I feel weightless. Barely there and floating—observing the scene from afar.

When enough time has passed and I’m convinced Byzantine won’t wake up, I watch myself reach for the covers and slowly pull them aside, gently pushing his arm off me and back onto the bed. Luckily he doesn’t stir and I successfully creep into the bathroom.

The obsession is morphing into tunnel vision with every step I take, and I don’t risk turning on the light while I silently rummage through the drawers and cabinets trying to find what I’m looking for.

I promised I wouldn’t do this again.

And I’ve kept it for months now. But it’s no longer enough.

I need to see it. I need visual proof. Evidence that this pain and this anger that is sofuckinginvisible is real. If I can’t direct it at my mother, I’ll turn in towards me. Someone needs to be punished for how I feel, and my body is the only semblance of control I seem to have. I lord over it when everything else feels like it’s being swept into the chaos of living.

Finally, I find what I’m looking for, picking up the razor with shaky fingers, my heart drumming loudly as if I just won a prize. Quickly, I turn my attention to the bedroom, making sure Byzantine is still asleep.

Satisfied, I glance back to the razor and begin to dismantle it, trying to break the plastic to access the blades, the ritual akin to a drug addict setting up their paraphernalia before taking a hit. It’s a promise of release, and the obsession only grows headier with the thought. I’m so close—so fucking close, the release only minutes away. I can already visualize the blade on my skin and that dark voice inside rejoices at the thought.

This is the only way out of this feeling.

I need this, I need this, I need this.

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