Enoch wasn’t here and I’d just broken my three-day streak.
The memory of how I ended up here on the floor, cut and bleeding, weighed down my will to get up.The nightmare. Hell, I hadn’t had one yet this month, and I wasn’t prepared for how weak and disgusting I would feel waking up from that hell.
I gingerly skimmed my hand across the vinyl tile floor beside my leg in search of the blade I had dropped at some point during the process. My finger snagged against the still-warm, paper-thin metal, and I picked it up.
I knew it was wrong. That it was fucked up that when the endorphins hit with the slice of the blade I was fantasizing about Enoch. I should have been dealing with this shit with my therapist, but I was too selfish and sick to give up the only version of Enoch I had. The one that lived in my head when I got the high from self-harming. The one where we were happy, and I was very much alive. Not just a husk that happened to still be breathing.
It started out as a punishment. A way to soothe my soul from all the guilt eating away at my conscience. It was never meant to be some sick ritual I had to perform every time I needed an escape from reality. Fantasizing about him became a crutch, a means to forget about the filthy, murky, darkness I tried to purge from my veins when shit got too hard.
But no matter how many times I punished myself, the guilt still lingered. I had promised myself I would stop. But I was too fucking weak. I couldn’t even last three days without giving in to the temptation.
I startled at the obnoxious buzzing from the other room.
My alarm to get ready for work.
I sighed, pushing myself up from the floor and turned on the shower. I didn’t bother to look at my reflection as I quickly cleaned the blade and shoved it into the bathroom vanity drawer. I ignored the sting and burn from the cuts on my hip as I stepped under the hot spray.
It was going to be a long fucking day.
I rushed through my routine to get ready for work. The quicker I started my day, the quicker it fucking ended.
I glanced at the calendar on my way out the door, my eyes snagging on the number I wrote down last night.
1665.
Four years, six months and twenty-two days.
I started counting the day I joined Reformation Life Studies. The day I had officially died and left my entire life behind for some fucked-up revenge plan to maybe get a chance at taking down Los Siete.
Four and a half years later and I hadn’t stopped counting. Apparently, I was really shitty at breaking habits, even the benign ones.
Today marked three years free and I was still having nightmares. I shoved the lingering fragments of last night’s nightmare away and grabbed my gear, heading downstairs to the heated garage.
It was just before four in the morning, which meant there likely weren’t any residents awake. I always walked my bike out of the garage and started the engine once I was on the street to avoid the loud echoing rumble waking anyone up. I was fortunate to live in a complex that was filled with mostly senior citizens. I knew they wouldn’t appreciate being startled awake at four from a motorcycle beneath their apartment.
The sun was already over the horizon giving me a clear view of the sleeping city. Midnight sun meant that I could drive easily at any time of day or night during the summer.
I liked having a job that required me to be up this early. It meant I could avoid traffic and cruise all the way to work. Even if Grip Lab was a short fifteen-minute ride away, I still got to enjoy the views of the Chugach Mountains.
Anchorage, Alaska was stunning. Anyone who got to witness the natural beauty would say the same. Which was the reason I gave everyone, namely my friends Lottie, Mason, and Hannah, when they asked why the hell I owned a motorcycle I could only ride for a short portion of the year when the weather was right.
Lottie threw a fit when she found out Cole was selling me his motorcycle in order to buy an upgrade for himself. She said it was reckless and an invitation to an early grave. And she was right, but it didn't fucking stop me from getting my license to ride.
I liked the thrill. The danger. The wind rushing past my body. The sound of the engine roaring to life. Music blasting in my helmet. The pull of the bike when I leaned into the curves in the road. Thefreedom.
But most of all, I liked the adrenaline rush.
I was addicted to anything that could bring me closer to the edge of life and death. It reminded me just how very alive I was. A bitter reminder of every fucked-up thing I’d had to do to get here. And maybe that too was a punishment, but I was a masochist.
I was comfortable living in the pain. I’d been doing it for so long that I couldn’t remember if there had ever been a time when I wasn’t in pain.
I checked the time on my dash and rolled my neck as I sat at a red light. 4:05.
At four thirty every day except for Sundays, Grip Lab opened for free climb. You had to be a member and have received your belay certification to climb that early, so it wasalways the expected regulars that came through before heading to work. I was only there for supervision purposes or if anyone new came in and had questions.
I liked the fact that I worked unusual hours. Monday, Wednesday and Fridays I came in by four fifteen to open and then was gone by noon. Tuesdays and Thursdays I worked a normal eight to four-ish, and the weekends were mine. Well, except the first Sunday of the month when we had a lunchtime staff meeting.
And today.
