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Inside she feels like a collection of tiny pieces, fractured and broken. So why shouldn’t the outside look the same? She picks up the razor and breaks it in half, freeing the blades from the protective plastic shell. She drops the rubbish on the floor, then holds one blade between two fingers. She can feel her hands shaking.
Slowly, she puts the sharp edge against the top of her upper thigh. She sees the scars from previous times. Some no more than silver lines, others still red, barely healed. She pushes and draws the razor across her leg. She feels the blade puncture the skin, slice into her flesh. Blood blooms, runs down her leg. She does it again. She knows how hard she should push—enough to make it bleed, but not so much that she needs the hospital. After all, she hasn’t got Nav anymore.
She feels tears running down her face, dropping onto her leg, mixing with the blood. She knows what she’s doing is destroying her, piece by piece. But it’s punishment for being such a fuck-up. Punishment for not being normal.
She counts. Seven, eight. She knows she’ll stop at ten. Ten is always enough to release the tension, to open the safety valve of the pressure cooker. That, or finding some random man to do what they do so well.
But, like the razor, the sex never appeases for long. The initial excitement of attraction, the endorphins of a quick fuck—they’re a rush, a distraction from the squalling in her head. But once it’s over and the man has gone, she’s back to the same screwed-up mess that she was before.
She’d always wondered if Patrick knew. If he had, he’d never said anything. And she’d dismissed his indiscretions too. The woman whispering in his ear with a smile and a glance her way at the Christmas party. The calls late at night that Patrick took from another room. She didn’t blame him. She wasn’t a good wife. She wasn’t a good anything.
The door opens, pulling her away from her thoughts. She looks up. Griffin’s standing there, squinting in the light. He swears, dropping down to his knees next to her.
“Fuck, Jess, what are you doing?”
He leans forward, taking the toilet paper roll and bundling up tissue, pushing it against her leg, trying to stem the bleeding. Then he stops, and Jess watches him take a long breath in, staring at the floor.
He looks up and slowly holds out his hand. She drops the razor blade into the ball of bloodied toilet paper.
She’s expecting anger, disappointment, judgment, fear. All reactions she’s seen before, from her parents, from medical professionals, from her husband. But Griffin seems different.
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” he says. His voice is serious but calm.
Jess shakes her head. Griffin opens the cupboard again and takes out an old box of Band-Aids. Silently he does what he can to stop the bleeding, covering up the cuts one by one, balking at the mess. He glances up at her every now and again as he works, as if expecting some sort of complaint about the pain, but she just watches him impassively.
When he’s finished, he sits back on the floor, cross-legged. She’s still leaning against the wall, her legs in front of her.
“Do you want to talk to someone about it?” he asks.
She shakes her head again. “No.”
“Have you? In the past?”
“It didn’t help.”
“Okay.”
She sees Griffin looking at her, his gaze moves to the bandage on her head, then back to her leg. He knows something’s up, she thinks. I should just tell him. But she’s aware that once people find out, their perception of her shifts. They treat her differently. And after what she’s just done with the razor, there’s enough going on right now.
Griffin looks away, and he sighs, thinking. Then he stands up, holding out his hand. She takes it and he pulls her to her feet. Her legs feel wobbly. “Well,” he says, almost more to himself, guiding her back into bed, turning the light off. “What a fucking state we’re both in.”
He lies down next to her in the darkness, pulling the duvet across. She listens to his breathing, to the cars outside on the road. Every time she thinks she’s got the measure of Griffin, he proves her wrong, yet again.
* * *
She must have fallen asleep, because when she wakes, she’s curled up next to him, skin touching skin. She moves away, embarrassed at what might have seemed like affection.
He’s asleep and Jess looks at him in the dim light. All his features are relaxed, his usual frown gone. She pauses.
She wants to know more about Griffin. Her curiosity digs at her.
She pads across to the table, where Griffin has left his bag. She scrabbles around in the pockets, glancing back to the bed to make sure Griffin is still sleeping. There’s his laptop, printouts, a few photos, all in the main compartment. Wrappers from some sort of energy bar, screwed up receipts. She turns her attention to the side pocket and pulls out what’s in there. She looks at it—it’s a small white box, with “OxyNorm” written on the front, “oxycodone hydrochloride” below. She pulls out the blister pack—small orange capsules that she has seen Griffin take on more than one occasion.
Jess doesn’t know anything about pain relief, but she’s heard of oxycodone. They’re strong, addictive. She looks at the box: there are eight left.
She frowns but replaces it in his rucksack. Her attention turns to his jeans, discarded across the sofa, and she picks them up, feeling the pockets. There’s a wallet in one side, and she pulls it out, looking at the cards. Nathanial Griffin. So that’s something: it’s his actual name at least.
She puts it back, then something in the pocket attracts her attention. It’s a photograph, slightly crumpled, of Griffin and a woman. He has his arm around her and he’s smiling. Jess realizes that in the time she’s known him, she’s never seen him smile like this, and she looks more closely. His hair is shorter; he’s clean-shaven, handsome. He looks happy. Her gaze drifts to the woman next to him. She has long, dark hair, falling softly over her shoulders. His arm is tightly around her, and she’s leaning into him.
