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“Not interested.”
“I’m serious. You should talk to someone. Sort things out, you know? You’re not right.”
My fist tightens around the handle.
“Counseling is for everyone, Trist. Hell, I’ve been seeing a therapist for years.”
“No.”
“Seriously, I was reading about Post-Incarceration Syndrome, and it’s exactly what—”
“I said no!” I shout, turning on her. “I don’t need tosee someone. I don’t need totalk. There’s nothing tosort out.It’s not complicated, Kim. I’ve lived in fucking hell on earth for four years. So no, I’m not right. I will never be right,and the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can pretend I have any fucking chance at having a life!”
I slam the sponge in the sink and storm away. Shaking, I march down the hall, but I don’t know where to go. I don’t have a room here. Or a bed. Or even a fucking closet to store the three outfits I have to my name. I have nothing. I belong nowhere. I am no one.
Nobody wants you.
I end up in the bathroom and lock the door. Kim followed me, but I can’t face her right now. She thinks she’s helping. She thinks what I need is hope but what I need is to go back in time and redo the worst night of my life.
Not the worst night. Not even close.
I can’t breathe as I sink to the floor and rest my forehead on my knees. Memories rush in, filling the void with darkness worse than nothingness. That’s what Kim doesn’t get. Isabel. Some pointless therapist. The cure for pain is numbness. When we have a headache, we numb it, don’t we? We don’t talk about it and dump it on others. We don’t analyze it and think we can dissolve it by embracing the pain. We take a fucking pill and go to sleep.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes.
Sleep. God, I’m tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Spiritually. I’m tired of living, of trying to survive. I’m just—
A knock bangs out, and I glare at the door.
“Go away!”
“Tristan, please. Just talk to me.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“I know, but you have to. You can’t keep everything bottled up. It’s killing you.”
Growling, I push myself up from the floor and pull the handle of the shower to drown her out. I vaguely hear her through the thunder of the water, but her nagging is blissfully unintelligible.
Talk to someone. Right.
Because that’s what this world needs to fight horrific evil and rampant injustice—more talking. More hypocrites pretending to care until no one’s looking. More social climbers pretending to love you until it’s better to hate you. More predators talking, talking, talking while they strip you of your body and soul.
No. I’m done talking.
I’m. Fucking. Done.
I lean against the side of the tub and close my eyes. Steam swirls around me, and I breathe it in, imagining the soft vapors singeing my lungs. How much would it take to cleanse the filth inside? How hot does it need to be to sear away the invisible infection that’s getting impossible to contain? It’s taking over. I thought walking through that gate into freedom would be the antidote, but all it did was proveI’mthe disease.
Exhaustion creeps over me in the sticky heat. I can’t fight that either, and soon I feel the haze of sleep drawing me into the only safe place left for someone like me: unconsciousness.
A shadow looms. I have no time to react before it’s tearing at me. The gasp of fear can’t be mine but maybe it is when it’s followed by splitting pain in my head.
Groaning, I rub the spot that just collided with the tub.
“Crap. Are you okay? I’m sorry.”
I blink up to find familiar hazel eyes wide with concern.
