Yes, without a doubt. Reaper will never let a woman struggle. I’m so tired of being a problem someone needs to take care of. I want to take care of myself, but I’m doing a piss poor job at it.
My fist slams against the countertop, and I let out an ear-piercing scream. I continue to pummel the sink with my bare fists until they ache. I’m running out of breath. My chest heaves. My eyes water. The scream helped, but the fear is deep-seated.
Fear doesn’t leave. It’s a parasite, a life-sucking, blood-draining, promise of death. Once it’s there, the only way it can leave is if you conquer it before it takes ownership of your soul.
I think I’m too far gone.
With a shaky hand, I reach for the gold handle of the drawer and slide it open, revealing my stash of razors.
I hate myself.
I know how self-deprecating I am, and I’m sick of feeling that way. I don’t know how to get better, and now I have to worry about a baby?
Maybe I can give him or her up for adoption. That’s a decent option. I can live with myself knowing my child is alive instead of aborted.
But then I’ll have to go my entire life knowing my kid is out there living a life without me. I slam the drawer shut and run my fingers through my hair, pulling the strands tight at the indecision bouncing around in my head.
No, I need this.
I wish when I was in Jersey, they would have killed me. Life has been too hard to live day by day. I feel like I’m sucking the life out of the Ruthless Kings, like I’m an obligation instead of a friend, someone they want around. They are stuck with me because of what happened. I’m a constant screw up, someone who always needs to be babysat because no matter where I go, I seem to be a burden.
Maybe that’s why the last six months of school have been so hard. I’ve been slowly self-destructing. I don’t know how to live anymore, not after Jersey. Every day that goes by I’m a ghost of myself, only appearing when I need to and want to.
I turn my arms over and see the scars decorating them. Some are pink, freshly healed, some are old, a pale white, while some are scabbed. I don’t need to be doing this, but I can’t help it. The cutting brings me so much peace, and I relax. I never relax.
One more time.
I open the drawer again, my hand shaking as I reach for the straight razor.
I love the pain, the sting, and when I see the blood pooling on my skin, I feel like I’m a little bit closer to death. It’s taboo, a rope I like to balance on. I stare down at the razor in the palm of my hand, the silver of the metal shining against the bathroom light. A tear falls from my face and lands on it, reminding me of the sad death that awaits if I do it right.
The air conditioning kicks on, a low hum sounding as the breeze from the vents blows against my face. My tears dry, and when I look at myself in the mirror, it’s with determination.
My gaze follows the steps I take as I walk into the bedroom and settle on the bed. This time, I’ll do it right. I place a pillow behind me and bring the white covers up to my waist. If I die, I want to be comfortable.
The urge to hear his voice one more time has me reaching for my phone on the nightstand. I type his name in my contacts and press call, then place it on speaker. I lay the phone against the bed.
Ring. Ring. Ring. The phone sings for ten, fifteen, and then twenty seconds. My brows crease, hoping he answers. I want to hear his voice.
I take the blade and press it against my skin, right where my elbow creases. I dig the blade in and make a sound in the back of my throat from the initial sting. I inhale a deep breath and hold it as I drag the sharp razor down my arm, watching the flesh split open and the blood part on either side of the wound.
“Hey, Jo. What’s up?” Eric answers just as I stop at my wrist.
It’s the longest cut I’ve ever given myself.
“Eric,” I say, half high on the pain. “I just wanted to hear your voice.” I move to the other arm by placing the blade in my left palm. The blood soaking my hand makes it difficult to grab the razor. Everything is slick. “I’m sorry,” I slur and think about the night we shared together. It’s the only good memory I have, the only one I can remember. It isn’t anything special; at least, I doubt it is to Eric. It is to me. He held me all night, and it prevented me from having a nightmare. We didn’t say a word.
He just curled his arm around me, and we slept.
“Sorry? For what, Jo?” Jo, he’s the only person to ever call me that, and I love it. It makes me feel special to him, even when I’m probably not.
Finally getting a hold of the blade between two blood-slick fingers, I lay them against the same place on my right arm and drag it down again.
“Jo? What are you doing? Jo?” He sounds eerie, skeptical, curious. He always knows when something is going on.
“I’m sorry,” I begin to cry again. “I can’t do it. I can’t live this life anymore, Eric.” My head falls against the headboard as my eyelids grow heavy. Blood is saturating the white blanket, a red-stained coffin just for me. “I tried,” I gasp.
“What the hell are you talking about? Jo, don’t do anything stupid. I’m on my way. Just stop, okay? I’m coming.”
“No,” I whisper, the weakness in my throat a disease against my vocal chords. “Don’t bother.” Tears swim my vision, and as I shake my head, the salty drops fall on my raw, red cheeks. “I honestly can’t. Too much has happened now. I’m—” I almost let slip out that I’m pregnant, but I know Eric will want to change my mind. I’m better off. The baby is better off. What if my son or daughter gets adopted by an abusive family? What if they never get adopted and end up on the streets? I won’t put my kid through that.
“Jo, you listen to me,” he chokes, and the line goes static for a moment. It sounds like he’s walking outside. “You are brilliant. You are strong. You are fucking amazing. Whatever you’re about to do—”
I wheeze and roll my arms so the wound is down, and the blood flows out quicker. There’s so much the sheets aren’t soaking the red up anymore. It’s a pool. “It’s too late.”
“Jo—no. Listen—” With the last of my energy, my finger presses the end button, cutting off whatever else he has to say. I know that he will try to convince me that this dark, fucked up world is worth it.
But my experience tells me, the world can go to hell.
“Fuck!” I roar as I swing my leg over my bike and throw on my helmet. I should’ve been keeping a better eye on Joanna, but with my attraction to her and everything she has been through, I thought I’d give her more time to heal. Damn it. What kind of fucking doctor am I?
I crank my bike, only for it to stall, and try again. “Stupid goddamn September desert heat and this stupid goddamn bike won’t start.” I’m so damn nervous I can’t fucking think. “Come on, you stupid piece of shit!” I slam my fists on the handlebars when the damn thing won’t start. I’ve only felt panic like this once in my life, and that was when my dad was skinning me alive with his scalpel.
“Talk.”
I jerk my head up to see Tongue standing in front of me, gripping my wrist and stopping me from hitting my bike again. I can’t breathe. My heart is beating a million miles an hour, and I can’t think straight.