He pauses for a long time, leaving me space to interject, but I know better than to say a word. Finally, he asks, “How’s your schoolwork going?”
“It’s hectic,” I say, forcing my jaw to relax enough to edge the words out. “There’s a load of essays I need to write this term. I really can’t afford to spend time away.”
“Sure, you can,” my mother says, the glint in her eye harsher than a metallic pot scrubber.
I close my eyes, making myself say, “We agreed—”
“Plans change.” Her voice is rigid. “And after the mess over the summer holidays…”
My skin shivers with revulsion as she leaves the sentence hanging, too lazy to even finish her condemnation. A myriad of images and sensations flood in to fill the gap until I bow my head, as scared of what I might project as I am afraid of what’s playing out inside my head.
“I’m sure I can get away if you need me,” I finally offer, hoping it will never come to pass. Wishing my counselling session was tomorrow instead of yesterday.
Or tonight. Tonight, would be better.
I could open my mouth and spew out this anxiety, releasing it into the world rather than trying to deal with it alone.
But who am I kidding?
I don’t talk about my family life with my counsellor. As my parents have sternly reminded me in the past, she’s there to get me over the road bumps installed by my episodic bullying, not fix every single detail of my past.
Or my present.
And thinking of bullying yanks my mind back to Seb, the place I’ve spent the day trying to drag it away from.
A thread of fear pulls at me, making the scars on my inner thigh pulse in time with my heartbeat. What would happen if they found out he’d been here, that he’d visited?
What would happen if they used it as an excuse to claw me back home?
I sign off the call a few minutes later, barely aware of anything that happened after the rude shock of apparently being on call to help impress their investor friends.
My hand reaches without thinking for the bottle of wine I keep stocked in my bottom desk drawer. I spin off the cap, pour out a glass, carefully filling it right to the lip.
I gulp at the room temperature sauvignon blanc, not a serving suggestion I’ve ever heard in polite company but one I have a deep familiarity with in practice. The crisp notes turn sour as I drain the glass, forcing myself to stop halfway through so I can pretend I’m not using it as self-medication.
Oh, no. Nothing to see here.
The rest of the glass disappears just as quickly after a short breather, and I replenish it from the bottle, wincing at how far the level’s fallen with just those two.
No matter how wealthy my adoptive father, how well his business performs, he’s always on the hunt for another client to sign, another partner to impress, another investor to hand over their money and walk away, trusting it will be there when they need it.
His wife is a perfect companion for that hunt. She can never have too many influential friends, rich friends, connected friends, friends dotted through the political landscape.
A true power couple, their greed and ruthlessness in exact compliment to each other.
I refill my once-again-empty glass with the last of the bottle then fall onto my bed, taking handfuls of my hair and fisting it, turning it when the first shock of pain recedes.
Stop hurting yourself.
The internal scold works like a slap, and I untangle my hands from my hair, picking off the silky strands that came away when I pulled, winding them around my forefinger in a tight spiral until the tip glows white and the hairs are as tight as a garotte.
Stophurtingyourself!
I let go of the ends, rubbing both my palms flat on the bedcovers, trying to find a place on the ceiling to anchor my restless eyes.
Breathing exercises. I count off the beats in my head for box breathing. Gratitude flows through me when my pulse relaxes to its usual rhythm.
When the counsellor had suggested the relaxation technique, I’d rolled my eyes at the hippy-dippy shit. I’d wanted drugs, something I could take with a reliable outcome every time, but she’d insisted.
