My body hides within itself as I replay that fateful night over again. If not for being in my bra, my phone would have been taken too. Did Dad not notice the lack of charges on the cards? Or did the vile man use them?
How could he not feel my pain? Was my voice too soft, too unbroken, too insincere? If not for Dad being the mayor of Hollow Ridge, I’d have told someone. Maybe. Possibly. Probably not. The shame that constantly stabs me isn’t alleviating anytime soon. I get off the tile floor, heading to the master bathroom of the flat. Dad didn’t spare any expense. It’s stocked full of groceries, even now, over two months after my arrival. It has two bedrooms—one made into an office for my studies. The kitchen grand and beautiful, expertly decorated for my chef skills. Everything super detailed and elegant.
As I run the bath, I pray for answers. I’m not a religious person. How can I be after what that man forced into me and then stole soon after? If the world was created by a man full of wisdom, hope, and faith, why did I carry none?
The water level begins to rise, and I go for the cupboard. Searching. For what, I don’t know. Pills? Anything to erase the imagery invading all my senses. Inside, there’s nothing. Not a single depressant. I can’t even buy alcohol, not that I’d want to leave my place anyway.
I grab the scissors from my drawer, knowing this is my only means of escape.
Bleed.
Cut.
Relief.
The scars are hideous. They dance across my skin, pretending to care, but the pink and white raised skin does nothing for the memories plaguing my mind. Maybe this time, if I dig a little deeper, the memories will bleed out of me.
I go to the clawfoot tub, not even undressing as I sink in. The water is scalding, not cool, not even hot—it’s fucking feels acidic as it burns my flesh. The steam comes off in flurries of heat, the clouds whirring around as my lungs breathe for me. After minutes of pain, it all ends, and though my flesh is pink, my need for more hasn’t abated.
Feel.
That’s what I want.
Pain.
That’s what I need.
Nothing.
That’s what I get.
Gripping the metal shears in my palms, I rotate them, creating a peaceful routine. Back and forth. Flip. Flip. Flip again. When pain grips me from the scalding heat, I change my mind. There’s something I need to do.
My skin is pink as I get out the tub, thinking of what changed. Maybe it’s the coffee shop where it happened. Maybe that’s where it all will end. Go away. Fix me. Stripping myself of the soaked clothes, an ache flushes my skin. The abraded feeling of my long shirt, jeans, and socks, reminds me of why this all needs to be over. If hurting myself is the only sustenance life can offer, then what’s the point in living?
After drying myself, I leave the flat. My feet touch each cobblestone as I venture as far from home as I’ve done in weeks. The sky is gray and dreary like me, matching my soul, my heart, what’s left of me. There’s no rain; the air isn’t even chilled. It’s almost stagnant, without motion, seamless and still.
I make my trek to the shop, but it doesn’t take long. No, it’s not far, and that’s the worst part. If I’d only managed a few hundred more paces, I’d have been safe that morning. Only a thousand at most, yet that very thousand cost me everything.
Spotting the little place that used to alleviate my sweet tooth before fate soured it, tears spring. They don’t fall, though. There’s not enough life there. No energy exists behind my eyelids right now. There’s a crosswalk nearby, a ton of little shops, and even a park, too. Yet none of these things saved me. I’d lost. I’d lost. I’d lost.
A teenage girl walks toward the light and crosses to the opposite street. She’s ten feet or so away from me. She’s so absorbed in a book cradled in her palms, she must not realize where she is. If she keeps her path, she’ll surely get hit. Her pace doesn’t slow as she’s headed straight for the crossing. I rush her, not wanting her to feel pain like me, even if her pain is different. It’s pain. And pain knows pain knows pain.
I tug on the straps of the little backpack wrapped around her arms,