As if he hasn’t heard anything I’m saying.
As if he refuses to accept the awful reality of the situation.
I slide out of the front seat and slam the truck door shut, wishing I’d had the foresight to insert my arm or even my head into the space so I could do physical damage with the force of my anger.
I crave the pain. The quiet that comes with it.
I’m desperate to escape my thoughts and replace them with a familiar burning pain, the intensity so demanding and insistent I can’t focus on anything else.
I trudge up the familiar path, head hanging. My body feels as if it weighs a metric ton, each step I take labored. When I come to the first step leading up to the porch, I falter.
I don’t deserve to go inside.
I don’t deserve any semblance of comfort.
Not after the pain I’ve caused.
A strong hand clamps around my shoulder. “If you’re going to cut, come to me first.”
The raspy words shock me, causing my lungs to seize.
“Wash your hands thoroughly,” he says evenly. “Sanitize the blade beforehand.”
These are all harm reduction techniques. Points I emphasize every time I volunteer for Better Yet.
“Just promise you’ll come to me and tell me. I won’t stop you. I won’t try to talk you out of it. But I’ll stay with you through this, Merce. You’re not going to break a fourteen-year streak and then sit with that alone.”
Alone.
Noah doesn’t deserve to be alone.
Sawyer refused to see us. My best friend has already lost everyone else he’s ever loved, because of me. Yet I’m still here, and he’s not giving up on me.
He never has.
Tears roll down my face. The self-loathing and shame that have dominated my every thought for the last twelve hours are nudged to the side by a stronger desire.
Conviction.
I want to self-harm, but I won’t. I don’t want to give in to the darkness. I don’t want to slice through the old scars and intricate ink that represent everything I’ve survived and endured.
I want to remain faithful to myself.
Most importantly, I don’t want to let Noah down.
“I don’t want to cut, but it’s all I can think about right now.” Sniffling, I wipe the tears away with my sleeve and meet his gaze. “I don’t trust myself to not succumb. Will you help me?”
A thousand-pound sigh escapes him.
“Yeah, Merce. Of course I’ll help you.”
Chapter eleven
Tytus
The room is dark. The pain is real.
Every breath inspires burning sensations throughout my chest.
