I chewed my lip. It was already unbearable just to tell Enoch. I didn’t want anyone else to know.
“She’ll be able to help,” Enoch coaxed. “You can talk to me, but it’s easier sometimes to talk to a third party. That’s why I go to meetings and talk to my sponsor. The more people you have in your corner, the easier it is to be held accountable.”
I sighed, “Okay.”
“Can you tell me where you keep what you use?”
I wanted to crawl into a hole and die, but I took a deep breath and rolled onto my back.
“My bathroom…My backpack.”
Enoch shifted on the bed, and I felt his weight leave.
I pulled the blanket up over my head, curling back into a ball. The sound of him rummaging through my things made my stomach churn. My mind was already coming up with ways to replace everything he was going to find, and, on instinct, my nails curled into fists, digging into my flesh.
Fuck.
My breath hitched and I refused to cry again.
I unfurled my fists, blowing out a deep breath.
“My nails,” I said as I heard Enoch step back into my bedroom.
“Hmm?”
I pulled the blanket off of my head and left my palms face up on the mattress.
“My nails.”
Enoch’s fingers traced the raw skin of my palms. I heard him step into the bathroom before he returned, seated on the bed beside me.
He lifted one of my hands into his lap, his fingers holding one of my own straight. Enoch proceeded to clip and file all of my fingernails. I curled my fingers in when he finished the first hand and sighed when they were too short to do any real damage.
I managed to open my eyes to a blurry image of Enoch when he’d finished filing them all. His eyes flicked down to meet mine and he smiled at me.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I murmured back.
“You want to get dressed while I make some food?”
I appreciated that he wasn’t asking any more questions and I nodded. He leaned down, kissing me slowly before pulling away.
“I’m proud of you.” He gave me a soft smile before leaving the bedroom.
I tried not to over think, tried not to let my insecurity turn to anger. I was grateful for Enoch, grateful he wanted to help me. It didn’t mean I liked it. Didn’t mean I wasn’t itching to lash out, push him away, hide. Only time would tell if it stuck this time. If I actually stopped torturing myself. If God answered my prayers.
Twenty-Six
July 20, Monday
Emory
Four days. Four long, exhausting days without giving in, without getting a deliciously toxic high, without punishing myself. I rode my motorcycle today, anything to get that emotional high that would distract me from wanting to carve into my flesh.
Enoch had hovered since he discovered my secret, although he’d already known about the tendency, just didn’t know the extent of my self-affliction. We’d spent the entire weekend together, and the second I got off work this afternoon I rode to the drugstore. I spent forty-five minutes pacing the aisle with the razors. I caved, purchased a pack of cheap disposables that I’d stashed in my backpack. They were calling my name, as I sat in the waiting area of Sarah’s office.
I felt like I was carrying around my gun, not a harmless pack of razors.
