I shower, washing away the sweat and rain clinging to my body. I dry off, move to the sink, and brush my teeth.
It’s late.
I’m exhausted, and ready to collapse into bed.
I reach for my serum and cream and apply them to my face and neck, careful to avoid my reflection in the mirror.
I got rid of some of the mirrors. I should have gotten rid of all of them.
But I didn’t.
Maybe it’s another fucked up form of self-punishment. Or maybe I just never followed through.
Either way, reflections are everywhere. Getting rid of mirrors would mean getting rid of televisions, glass, anything polished.
So no.
I keep telling myself I should just learn to live with it.
I put the cream back, and my arm closes around the blade hidden in the drawer.
I trace it with my fingers. Then I lose the battle and wrap my hand around it.
I don’t know why I do it.
I didn’t in Switzerland. Markev’s promise, to never hurt myself again, crosses my mind.
But I don’t let go of the blade.
Maybe I do it to feel something.
And maybe I didn’t do it in Switzerland because the psycho makes me feel plenty.
But he’s not here now.
And I shouldn’t get attached to the way he makes me feel.
It’s temporary.
It has to be.
I take in a deep breath, as the blade presses against my inner thigh.
When I’m finished cleaning my wounds, I grab the usual T-shirt I sleep in and pull it on. It barely reaches my thighs.
I don’t bother with panties. I tug on a pair of fluffy socks before leaving the bathroom.
A scream lodges in my throat the moment I step into the bedroom.
Sprawled across my bed, very much uninvited, is Markev.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand.
He smirks, clearly about to say something clever, but his gaze drops. To my bare legs, and to the shirt I’m wearing.
The instant his eyes catch on it, darkness flashes through them. The icy blue drains away, leaving black in its place.
It should disquiet me.
