You need?—
I screwed my eyes shut, inhaling a shaky breath as I pulled open the cabinet door underneath the bathroom sink. Bending down, I reached for the small box. It was inconspicuous. Dull. A plain black box with a black lid on top, tucked into the farthest corner behind various hairsprays, wayward rolls of toilet paper, and the random makeup Willow stored there.
The box was mine, dubbed my “working box” thanks to Willow. She was under the impression it held everything I needed for a night on the street. Which was partially true.
Opening it, the first thing anyone saw would be various types of condoms, a few unopened lubes, chapstick, cleaning wipes, and the half-empty lipgloss container for the odd nights I needed something extra for clients.
Underneath the strategically placed mountain of condoms was a sheet of toilet paper. Beneath the sheet of toilet paper was a hidden blade placed right beside a small package of Band-Aids. Beside that was an assortment of gauze, all different sizes depending on my needs, and a single roll of mostly used medical tape.
A lone off-brand over-the-counter pain pill sat off to the side, jostling around with every movement as a reminder of my last failed attempt on my life. Seeing it always brought back memories of the pain I had been in the next morning. The scent of vomit and the distinct smell of my body shutting down burned my nostrils as if it had happened yesterday.
I’d never tried again and didn’t plan to.
My fingertips began to tingle as I picked up the blade, twisting my wrist to let it gleam in the shitty bathroom lighting. I looked over to the closed door, letting my thoughts fight themselves for a moment.
What if I didn’t do it?
If I did, I’d have to hide the marks from Price for a while.
The cleanup was always a bitch.
There were a million reasons not to, but the water beginning to cover my mouth didn’t allow for further hesitation. Sitting on the toilet, I pulled the hem of my boxers up until they fit into the crease of my groin. Finding unscarred skin to cut would be too difficult, so instead I found a group of old scars that were flush against my skin, pale white and almost unnoticeable.
Tiny, red beads of sin rose to the surface over the first swipe of my blade. It was a warm-up. The starting course to the feast my demons demanded.
Another swipe. Relief trickled with the crimson, a contrast to my pasty thigh beneath it. My hand moved on autopilot, something else taking over and creating the next map of mistakes.
The burn didn’t deter me, though a few had me sucking in a breath when they were especially tender. The pain was what I focused on, knowing it would absolve me of what I’d done. Of the control I’d lost. Of what Thompson had turned me into.
For the first time in years, tears began to blur my vision as I pressed the blade against my thigh, pushing deeper with each touch. I could feel the adrenaline rush through me, an elated frenzy of emotions that kept me from stopping. I wasn’t done yet. I couldn’t be done yet.
There was so much to atone for, so little for me to grasp onto, and this was the only way. Another sheet of toilet paper was stained red, finding its way into the toilet bowl. I was an expert at balancing causing damage and controlling it, not letting the evidence of my grief drip ontothe floor yet creating enough of it that I could convince myself it was enough.
I hadn’t cried while doing this since I was sixteen. I had considered myself numb to it. The act didn’t bother me as much as it had when I’d first started.
Yet here I was, hiccupping through loud sobs as my tears mixed with my blood. It was a deeper red now, a steady line down the side of my thigh as a drop escaped me, splashing onto the bathroom tile.
Pressure built in my chest as I paused, staring at the mess I’d created. I grappled with order, gripping it with strong hands to keep myself sane. When I didn’t, shit went wrong.
I was bleeding freely onto the floor, officially losing my mind as I stared at the small puddle. My heart hammered against my ribcage, pounding on the walls of my chest in an attempt to break free as I sobbed. This hadn’t happened to me since the first few times I’d done this to myself.
I had to be incontrol.
My eyes slowly shut as I leaned against the back of the toilet, letting my defeat roll across my shoulders. I pointed my chin towards the ceiling, the hand holding the blade falling limp to my side as I slumped in on myself.
Not for the first time recently, I thought about Mom. Her hugs and the gentle way she’d rub my back when I was crying. The smell of the nasty perfume she was always wearing, despite my constant pleading to her not to.
For a moment, I wasn’t Crew, the lost, pained man who loathed the next morning I woke up. I was the little boy who loved his mother. The barely legal adult who couldn’t cry at her funeral because crying made it real.
A creak and a gasp shattered the wretched scene. I jolted, snapping my head towards the bathroom door that was now open. Price stood in the doorway, his mouth hanging open, his eyes frantically searching between my mutilated thighs, the blood on the floor, and my face.
“You’re not supposed to be here.” My voice sounded foreign to my ears, an edge to it that I couldn’t recognize.
Price looked up, locking his gaze with mine. A swarm of hurt racedacross his face as he took a tentative step forward. “I was worried about you, and it seems I had good reason to be.”
I shook my head, grabbing more toilet paper in a failed attempt to cover what I’d done. “You’ve seen my scars.” I sniffed, willing the tears to stop as I placed the bloodied blade on the countertop. “I told you I didn’t want to see you tonight.”
“Seeing old, healed scars and seeing you covered in your own blood are two entirely different things.”
