His head tilts to the side, and when he speaks, his voice is soft and smooth. “I’m here if you need me.”
I wrench myself away from him and close the bathroom door loudly. I brush my teeth unnecessarily roughly, spitting blood in the sink and feeling strangely satisfied to see streaks of red splattered on porcelain.
I feel physically sick by the time I get into bed. The sheets are cold, too heavy, and too light. The room is too dark, yet not dark enough to hide the judgment in the photographs of Havi that look down on me.
I scroll through my messages, like I always do. I messaged my family during my lunch break, so that’s one thing I did right today. I told them I’ve started a new job and that I’m doing okay. I made a joke about adulting, which I think was a nice touch, and I told them not to worry about me. They’ve all messaged back, but I haven’t read their messages yet. I have a feeling all three of them have gone right ahead and worried despite my telling them not to.
I’ll reply tomorrow. Or the next day.
Tonight, there’s something I have to do.
I scroll and scroll until I land on Havi’s name.
I take a deep breath as I type, trying not to think about how long it’s been since he replied, and hit send.
Happy birthday, you dick.
I miss you more than I ever thought possible.
Bet you get a real kick out of that, huh?
I wait, phone in hand, heart in throat, as I will two blue checks to appear next to my messages. When they don’t, the numbness that’s cloaked me for months cracks. The pain it lets through is a knife to my chest. A stab wound delivered repeatedly, bright white and breathtaking in intensity. Pain so pure it robs me of oxygen. I thrash, gasping for air and frantically reaching for something, anything to hold on to.
I tap my screen to get me out of Havi’s thread and see Connor’s name at the top of my messages.
Connor The Spark.
Are all the names in my contacts list in bold, or is his the only one?
I don’t know, and it probably doesn’t matter.
I’m probably unwell.
No. I’m definitely unwell.
The knife in my chest twists and stabs. Twists and stabs again. Twists and stabs so deeply I hear the sound of a skateboard on tarmac, and I hear my own voice, ripped raw and screaming for help.
My vision, my mind, swims.
When I look at my phone again, I see a message I don’t remember sending. A message from me to Connor.
I need you.
He comes to me quietly. Opening the door and closing it so gently that if I were asleep, he wouldn’t have woken me. He crosses the room quickly, the balls of his feet on parquet timber, a soft sigh of skin, without the accompaniment of a heel hitting the floor.
I’m on my side in the dark, legs curled up in a fetal position. I’m cold and everything aches. I’m aware I should move, or at least I should tell him there’s been a misunderstanding and I’m actually okay. That’s what people do. I know that for sure. They say they’re okay when they aren’t. I’ve been doing it for so long that I can’t remember a time I didn’t.
I don’t speak though. Not because I don’t want to, but because my throat is cold too, and it aches more than the rest of my body does.
Connor gets to my bed, and without saying a word, climbs onto it and crawls over to me. I’m under the covers, he’s on top of them. He lies behind me and molds himself to me. His chest against my back. His knees tucked into the back of my legs. Heslides an arm under my head and wraps the other one around my chest.
Between his fingers, a blade twists and twists, until numbness shatters and saltwater pours from the gashes.
I shake and choke, clamping a hand over my mouth to stop any sound from escaping.
Connor doesn’t shake at all. He’s steady. A light in the dark. A solid weight holding on to me. Every time a new sob racks me, he holds on a little tighter. He does it until I’ve cried myself out, and he’s holding me so tightly that I can feel the thud of his heart against my ribs. A rhythmic opening and closing of valves. A pregnant pause as blood rushes through fibrous chambers.
Doo doof
