He flicked his gaze back down to my leg and that’s when I realized what he meant. It was bleeding, a lot, streaming down my leg and soaking the waistband of the sweats above my knee.
I shook my head at myself, raking my hands through my hair in frustration.
Enoch didn’t say anything, just stood and swiftly lifted me by the waist and propped me onto the counter beside the kitchen sink. He reached for the paper towels and rolled several over hishand before tearing it free and pressing it against the cuts. He placed my hand over the towels to replace his.
“Sit. I’ll be right back.”
I hung my head in defeat, cursing myself for letting him inside. I knew he was going to find the disassembled razor and the rest of the package still intact. Why the fuck was he putting up with me?
He came back with a package of gauze and band-aids. He dumped the box of bandages on the counter beside me and shuffled through them, his mouth pursed in a tight line.
“You really need some butterfly strips. Or stitches.”
He dragged his eyes up to mine, silencing my retort. I huffed, slowly pulling back the paper towels. I grimaced at the messy wound that was still bleeding and quickly replaced the towels to apply more pressure.
“You’re mad,” I muttered, the dark energy radiating off of him causing my shoulders to curl inward.
“No,” he breathed, his hand pulling my face up to meet his. “I hate seeing you in pain.”
“I…” The words were there, sitting on my tongue like a grenade. My heart raced and Enoch’s brown eyes held my stare. I swallowed, an attempt to get the rock out of my throat. “I’m sorry.”
My heart raced, a surge of adrenaline causing my breath to stutter. I braced for a punishment that I knew Enoch would never dole out but couldn’t get my body to realize.
“You can start again, right now.”
He said it with confidence, like he was certain I wasn’t going to fail despite the evidence all over my body.
“This doesn’t change the fact that you wanted to stop. But you have to want to, have to want to stop more than you want to continue hurting yourself.”
I shook my head against his hold on my face.
“I know,” he said, his brows raising with emphasis. “It doesn’t mean you’ve failed. Okay?”
I swallowed, soaking up the bright hope shining in his eyes.
“Yeah. Okay.”
He nodded.
“We’re going all in, baby. What’s the plan here? Did your therapist give you any information on coping mechanisms or how to rewire your brain to stop the addictive behavior? How are we gonna keep you accountable? Body checks? Do I need to sweep the house for sharps every night?”
I scowled. “Why do you sound like you just spent this whole time Googling how to fix me?”
Enoch shook his head. “I’m not trying to fix you, baby. I’m trying to help you heal. You want that, don’t you? You want to stop?”
“Yes!” I took a breath to control my emotions. I didn’t mean to lash out at him. “Yes. But I don’t need you to take on my shit when you’ve got your own.”
“You’re wrong. This,” he gently stroked the hand holding the paper towel, “isn’t some shit I’m ‘taking on’. It’s your battle. I’m here to hold your hand through it. To hold you during your bad days and to cheer you on during the good.”
Enoch held my stare for a moment.
“So, tell me. What’s the replacement? What are you doing to do when you feel the urge?”
I let out a long sigh. “I don’t know. My therapist talked about holding ice cubes or finding a distraction, but when I feel…”
I trailed off, closing my eyes. Enoch stroked my cheek.
“What’s it feel like? When you want to cut.”
