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Part of me wished I had.
“No one knows what really happened,” my uncle said, and I thought he was defending me until he added, “And I have to take her in. Do I want to? No, not at all. No one wants a damaged kid like that living under their roof.”
Again, I wanted to scream, but what would be the point? It wouldn’t change anything. And, deep down, I knew he was right. I was damaged.
“Still am,” I whisper to myself as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
I look like shit. Dark circles reside under my eyes, and my skin looks as pale as the damn snow that lined that river. And my stupid fucking chest, it won’t stop tightening. I swear the bastard is about to explode.
Just breathe, Raven.
Air in. Air out.
The more I try to will myself to breathe, the harder it becomes. I’m veering toward a panic attack—I can feel it. Usually, whenever this happens, I take a hit or do a line. Unfortunately, the water ruined what I had on me, and the rest of my stash is back at home.
I feel twitchy, like I’m about to crawl out of my skin. I need to get this panic out of me, and the only other alternative I can think of is to do something I haven’t done in a while, mostly because I turned to getting high as an easier alternative.
I start opening drawers until I find what I’m looking for—a razor. Weirdly, there’s a whole box of them. I mean, it’s not completely uncommon for someone to have them, but a lot of people don’t have a whole damn box of them. And they are stuffed in the back, beneath a bunch of other stuff, as if someone is trying to hide them.
I pick one up and hold it in my hand, just staring at it for a moment. It’s been a while, mostly because the last time I did it, I accidentally cut too deep. At least, that’s what I tell myself. The truth is that, deep inside the crevasse of my mind, where I have hidden all my forgotten memories, I know that it wasn’t an accident. I was trying to bleed it all out of me. That fucking pain that I swear has been slowly eating away at me from the inside for six years now. It gets so bad sometimes that it feels like my veins have been filled with shards of glass that nick and cut and slice away at me whenever I don’t have a grasp on myself.
Control.
For me, staying in control is the best thing possible.
The problem is that I’m living in a life where I’m relying on others.
I want to escape.
I want to be free.
I want it to be just me and myself where not a single other force can control what’s going on inside and outside of me.
As my chest starts trying to crush my lungs again, and those shards of glass whisper in delight, I put the tip of the razor to my wrist and slice.
The wounds on my side match the throbbing in the flesh wound on my wrist.
Freak.
Murderer.
Disappointment.
Yes, Ravenlee, you are a fucking walking disappointment.
I move my hand over to the sink as blood begins to weep from the open wound. It stains the porcelain white sink with droplets of that stupid pain that is eating at me from the inside.
For a moment, I feel like I can breathe.
I hunch over, my shoulders sinking and my head lowering as I take a deep breath.
Air in. Air out. Air in …
I exhale, and it’s not as heavy, all the pressure zeroed in on that wound.
I remain that way for a while, just letting myself bleed over the sink. All alone.
All alone with nothing but numbness to accompany me.
