And where was Dakota?
It was much easier to believe that I just wasn’t worthy, but I couldn’t get behind the possibility that it was actually Dakota sending those messages. He’d never say those things.
But even if Dakota walked into the room right now and told me it wasn’t him, I’d still be dealing with these feelings of inadequacy.
It wasn’t just Dakota being gone; talking to my grandma had excavated the worst memories that came with the most awful beliefs.
If this was a joke, it was the cruelest kind of joke anyone could play.
I choked on a sob.
I wanted tohurt.
I hated the tears that were spilling down my face, hated this wretched feeling that was twisting and burning inside me.
It was worse than rejection or bitterness or anger; it was dark and raw and clawed at the frayed edges of my threadbare soul. Nausea roiled in my gut as I started to tremble, and thena forceful surge of fury had me throwing my phone across the room with a horrible cry that was wrung from my chest.
Then I ripped my room apart.
I yanked the covers from my bed, threw the pillows, grabbed the books off my desk and chucked them at the wall. I went to my dresser and jerked the drawers open, flinging the clothes in every direction.
It wasn’t enough. Not even close.
I stumbled to the bathroom, pulling open the drawer on the left and grabbing my toiletry bag.
I unzipped it and pulled out the small pouch that held my razors, then caught my reflection in the mirror.
I wanted to break it. I wanted to drown myself in the shards of glass, wanted to break a thousand mirrors and dive into the broken pieces and choke on them. Suffocate on the sharp fragments.
My hand was shaking so hard that the razors rattled loudly in the bag, and—and?—
My breath hitched violently.
Fuck.
No, no,no.
I couldn’t do that.
No matter how much I was hurting, I couldn’t do that again.
Doing that again meant I was well and truly gone. I’d promised my mom, I’d promised her I would stop, even if she couldn’t hear me, even if she wasn’t around, I’d made a promise.
I’d promisedmyself.
With a sob, I threw the whole bag at the wall. The contents spilled into the tub, but it wasn’t enough.
I looked at myself in the mirror, staring at my repulsive face, the hideous birthmark.
Scissors. Did I have scissors?
No, even better.
I reached into the open drawer and grabbed the kit that held my trimmer, flipping the clasps open. My hands were trembling so hard that the plastic bits of various sizes went flying into the sink, scattering across the counter, but I didn’t need those. I picked up the trimmer and plugged it into the wall, then wiped away my stupid fucking tears so I could see myself, set the trimmer to the side of my head, and drew it slowly from front to back.
My hair began to fall away in clumps, and it was so satisfying, watching it go. With every bit of hair that fell to the ground, I felt like I was shaving off a damaged piece of my soul.
Good. I’d shave it all off, until I was nothing but an empty husk. Until there was no way I could ever hurt again. Until there was nothing left of me to hurt.
