Twice, I almost got up and left. The only reason I stayed is because I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me back down. No, I don’t deserve to be here, but I am, and there isn’t anything I can do to change it. My parents basically forced me to come here. I was perfectly fine where I was, but they wanted me to get out of the house.
I know Jackson hates me, but I hate myself far more than he ever will.
Trying to focus on the professor, I force my gaze to the front of the room, but I can’t shake the heat against the nape of my neck. His tangy scent of lemongrass and citrus surrounds me, intensifying his presence ten-fold. How can he still smell the same after all this time?
I thought coming here would help me forget about my past, but with his stupid scent and presence, I’m reminded of a time when he held me in his arms, kissed my forehead and told me everything would be okay.
“You remember how much Jillian loved writing, don’t you?” Jackson’s whisper fills my ears and my entire body tenses at her name.
Jillian. If it isn’t the loss of her that kills me, it’ll be the guilt that I’m left with. It’s like a fresh wound that never heals, even years later. It only seems to fester, never getting better. Every single time I think about her, there is nothing but pain, sadness, and guilt.
Refusing to acknowledge Jackson, I continue doodling on my paper while pretending that I’m not completely zoned out. I don’t want to feel right now. Don’t want to breathe or be here.
My fingers itch to inflict pain…
“What? Don’t you remember anything about your best friend? Or is it that you just can’t acknowledge the fact you killed someone? That you ripped a future right out from under her feet?” The pain in his voice cuts through me like a dull butter knife. I should tell him I’m sorry, but I’m not stupid. Sorry, won’t bring her back. Sorry, won’t take the pain away. He hates me just as I hate him. It’s a double-edged sword that neither of us will escape without casualty.
I feel tormented, broken. I don’t want to feel. Don’t want to drown in guilt and shame. Curling my hand into a tight fist, I sink my nails into the meat of my palm. At first it stings, but then pain erupts across my hand, and something in my head clicks; it’s almost like I get a high from hurting myself. It’s a momentary second of silence before everything comes back down on me. Pain triumphs any and all other emotions, it swallows them whole. Pain is the only thing that shuts it all down.
I’m lost in thought when I feel Jackson’s hand creep up the nape of my neck. Every hair on my body stands on end. Heat spreads up my chest and into my cheeks when I feel his hand circle the back of my neck. Squeezing as if my flesh is a stress ball, he leans forward in his seat. Hot breath fans against my ear, and even though I shouldn’t, my body responds to the closeness of his.
“I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer. Watching you drown in your own misery. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be wishing it had been you that died that night and not my sister.” A lump forms in my throat, and instantly, I’m drawn back into that memory.
Her lifeless body hanging there, vacant eyes, a future that she never got to have because of me. I was a killer. It was my choice to drive that night. I killed her. Killed us.
Squeezing my neck hard enough to leave bruises, he releases me with a shove, and I force a ragged breath into my lungs, not even realizing I was holding my breath.
“I’m expecting those papers to be done within the next three weeks,” Mrs. Jarrid exclaims from the podium at the front of the room. Like stepping too close to the sun, I can feel the heat of Jackson at my back, and I have to get away, get out of this room, get to my apartment, and release my emotions.
Standing abruptly, I bump my legs against the table, making a commotion as I shove my stuff into my bag. I know people are watching me, staring, but I don’t care.
“Where are you going, killer?” Jackson taunts, but I ignore him. My shoe catches on the side of the table as I rush out of the room, but I steady myself before I eat dirt. I don’t dare look over my shoulder. I don’t want to see his sadistic grin or dark gaze that was once the one thing I looked forward to every day. I don’t want to remember that he used to be my world.
I want to forget.
Escaping the room, I rush down the hall and burst through the double doors. The sun kisses my skin, and the air blows through my hair. I’m alive, but am I living? The thought comes from nowhere, and I push it away. I can’t get my feet to move fast enough, and each step to my apartment feels like an eternity, my shoes weighed down with bricks.
A group of girls rush past me on the sidewalk, they’re laughing and talking amongst themselves. Like normal college girls. I keep my head down and focus on the cracks in the sidewalk for the rest of the way to my small apartment. It’s only a short walk to campus, and I got this by design. I didn’t want to live in the dorms close to people, but I didn’t want to live so far away that I couldn’t walk. Since driving is out of the question for me.
Even if I hadn’t lost my driver’s license after the accident, I wouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel again. I don’t think I will ever be able to drive again, I can barely stand riding in a car in general. I’ve only gotten in a car with my parents since the accident, and I don’t see that changing in the future.
I sigh when I finally reach my apartment and retrieve my keys from my pocket with a shaking hand. Relief is so close, close enough that I can almost taste it. Unlocking the door, I hurry inside and close it behind me before clicking the lock back into place. I deposit my stuff on the floor and rush into the bathroom.
My hands are shaking with anticipation as I pull my pants down and step out of them. I open the medicine cabinet and grab the tiny box where I keep the razor blades. With trembling fingers, I grab one and put the rest on the counter.
Sinking to the floor with my back against the tub, I look down at my thighs. There are countless scars that decorate my skin. Most are so tiny they are barely noticeable; some are bigger, and others are still red, raised, and healing.
I don’t exactly know why I started doing this, but one day, I felt the need to do it. It started with nothing more than pushing the blade into my skin and later turned to deeper cuts. The rational part of me knows it’s wrong to do this, but it’s my one reprieve, for one second, I feel nothing, not shame or guilt, or fear. I might not know why I began, but I know that somewhere along the way, it morphed into something else… an addiction.
The one thing that helps me get through each day.
Holding the razor blade between my fingers, I bring it to a spot of unblemished skin and slide it across, watching as the skin separates.
Blood starts to pool along the blade, and my hand stops shaking, a euphoric feeling washes over me. The pressure on my chest is released, and suddenly, I can breathe again. Air enters my lungs rapidly as I suck in a deep breath and push the blade into my skin just a tiny bit deeper. Every time I do this, it becomes a little harder not to cut deeper, to stop myself from sinking the blade as deep as I can.
Do I want to kill myself? I don’t know. What I do know is I’ll do anything for five seconds of silence. Watching as the blood drips slowly down my leg, I feel satisfied. My vision becomes blurry, and my skin burns where the blade sliced through it, but it doesn’t hurt. I think it should hurt, though all I feel is sated. Still, I need more.