An odd lump forms at the back of my throat. I remember that feeling all too well. Even though what happened to me was a freakish thing, it still follows me from one day into the next. Some nights, I can still feel the press of a stranger’s fingertips in my arm as their warm, nicotine-ridden breath fans across the side of my neck.
Sadness and empathy fills me over this woman having to endure a near-death experience that will, unfortunately, shapeher for years to come. That’s the thing about trauma—no matter how close or far away you are from the moments it claimed you, it shapes a person and affects them in ways no one can ever see coming.
It’s crafty, careful, and cold-hearted.
In one minute, it can freeze you in place, and in the next, flames swarm and turn you to ash, everything you knew curling into orange lines as you try to find a shred of normalcy.
For some people, it’s Mother Nature that tries to steal their soul, lapping at it with the promise of something beautiful even though what lies beneath is anything but.
For others, it’s a human being dashing through the night, donned in nothing but black as they attack the wrong person, pull a knife from their back pocket, and sink it into healthy, innocent flesh.
3
EMORY
If opening the door and jumping out of the moving car wouldn’t make me seem more suicidal than everyone already thinks I am, I’d do it. I’d flip the lock while the engine hums softly under the hood, pull the lever, and tuck and roll in efforts to break free from the branding I’ve been given.
Those seven letters in the word suicide are engraved on my soul, the steam from the hot iron of Dr. Miso’s words fogging the air. What’s funny is that if I sit and think about it hard enough, I cansmellthe scent of burning flesh.Myburning flesh.
God, how I wish I could run.
I glance over at Lance out of the corner of my eye, enraged and sad all at once. “I don’t need to do this, you know.”
He must not expect to hear my voice—I’ve been quiet since being released from the hospital, keeping to myself as much as possible—because his grip on the steering wheel shifts and his wrist ticks to the side subtly.
His thin lips are pursed in a line, his brown hair styled in wispy tufts that make him look professional and so handsome that it almost hurts to look at him. Regardless of our history,I’m having a hard time feeling connected with him when all he’s done is take everyone else’s side but mine.
Though, I know it doesn’t help that we have unfinished business from before my accident. Wedding planning hasn’t exactly been perfect, especially not when his mother has wanted to control every aspect about our special day. There have been many hard conversations because of it. Lance wants me to be more willing and open to other people’s opinions. He wants me to stop having a cold shoulder where Larissa is concerned, but I’ve struggled with that, because in my head, she’s the one who’s making this more difficult than it needs to be. It probably doesn’t help that neither one of us is willing to budge and compromise.
“You have to,” is what he says as the car rolls to a red light. “That was part of you being released.”
I gently toss my head back on the rest, huffing out an irritated breath. “I should have just agreed to a 72-hour hold.”
He glances over. “You don’t actually mean that, Emory.”
“How would you know what I do and don’t mean? You won’t evenlistento me.”
Three long seconds pass. “I’m listening to you right now.”
“Yeah, now, but where were you when everyone backed me into a corner and forced this upon me?”
The light turns green, and he pushes his foot down on the gas pedal a little too hard. The car shoots forward a bit, and I look over at him for real this time.
It’s so hard—trying to see the man I once fell in love with when the person in the driver’s seat is nothing like the man that swept me off my feet and promised me the world. What’s sad is…I can’t even remember the last time I saw him.
“You’re making it sound like there was a team of people backing you into therapy sessions. When really, you were in a tragic acc?—”
“No. Don’t say that word when you don’t believe it to be true,” I tell him, almost appalled at his audacity. When my phone buzzes in my hand, hopefulness courses through me that I’ll get a break from this conversation.
I look at the screen and find a message from my mother. Lance was decent enough to contact my parents when he heard about what happened. I briefly spoke to them on the phone before they switched over to short text messages as a form of checking in.
Mom:How are you feeling today?
For a second, I consider not replying, knowing that we’re not going to get past this shallowness that exists between us. But then I force myself to, ignoring the disappointment that settles deep in my chest.
Me:Getting stronger every day.
It’s not a lie, though it’s not quite the truth, either.
