The woman who walked out on me without a second thought. The same face that everyone seems to hate.
Well, I fucking hate it too.
My mouth twists unpleasantly as my teeth grind. It all becomes too much, and something horrid and angry grips me unrelentingly.
I don’t even think as I grab the medicine cabinet’s mirror and wrench it with all my might. My ragged breaths fill the bathroom as I scream, and all I want is to make it go away.
I can’t stomach the sight of myself anymore.
The moment the cabinet gives, I stumble back and drop the mirror onto the floor. It shatters, glass dancing over my feet and making me hiss as shards embed into my skin. The light catches each fragment, causing it to glisten like something beautiful rather than a gateway to what makes me sick.
The pain is welcome. It distracts from everything else and makes me feelsomething.
Anything but the tragedy unfolding inside my head.
Anything.
My chest caves with my breath as I take in the carnage at my feet. As the quiet becomes unsettling, I crouch down and run my fingers over the shards. The pricks of sharp edges ghost over the pads of my fingers, and I shiver at the pain.
As my psyche threatens to break beyond the clear, thin boundary that’s held me back for years, I press my palm into the glass until pins prick every inch of skin. I bite my lower lip hard as the pain grounds me and prevents the oncoming panicattack.
When I ease off the pressure, some shards are embedded in my fingers, while the others fall back to the ground with a small tinkling sound.
My frame buzzes with energy, causing my limbs to shake as I rise. Blood is beginning to well up from my cuts, and I shove my appendage under the faucet before turning the spout on.
I don’t look as I clean myself up. With every pass of my other hand, the sharp, stinging pain of my wounds cements my mind further. It brings me back from the void, and surfacing is surreal.
The lights are too bright, and everything around me is overcrowding my field of vision as I deftly clean up my mess. Once I’ve picked enough glass from my palm and scooped the remaining into a small pile, I numbly walk to the pantry. I don’t even flick the light on as I grab the old dust pan and return to the bathroom.
Every movement I make is loud—too loud—each sound ricocheting off the walls and making my eyes involuntarily squint. Even the laughter from the gym that replays over and over again in my head feels weaponized, echoing with perfect cruelty through my skull. I flinch at the sharpness of it, cringing as if the noise knows exactly where to gouge and pick.
“Stop,” I grit as my eyes squeeze shut. “Stop thinking about it!”
I toss the glass into the trash can so hard that it makes a crackling sound. I slam the lid closed before forcing myself to go to my room.
I snatch my bookbag far more harshly than I should off my bed, and only stop when the Juilliard pamphlet flutters to the ground. The brightly colored front page winks back at me, the picture of smiling college students huddled together in a recording studio as its drawing point. They look pleased with whatever scene they just finished, and it makes my chest pang as I bend down and grab it.
I set my bag aside as I fall onto my bed and open the brochure. Silence fills my room as I gloss over every offered class, scholarship, and perk to attending the institution. The mocking laughter of the gymnasium fades until there’s nothing.
After I’m done, I don’t speak my thoughts out loud as I pin the brochure to my vanity. It looks out of place with the cracked, aged wood, but it feels right.
Intuition is something I never prided myself on. It’s hard to see the upside of any situation or think beyond the next day when one is subjected to a lifestyle as unforgiving as mine.
But as I stare at the small spark of hope, I can only see a future where I have it all. Everything else fades, and I forget for a moment about the life I plan to abandon.
It’s a turning point for me—something I never allowed myself to believe in until today.
I’m going to do this.
Even if it kills me.
Chapter Ten
Rosalie
Returning to school the next day is like a knife to the gut—tender and refreshing that oozing wound. The whispers and laughter have gotten louder as I step aimlessly through the halls. Everywhere I go, there are prying eyes on me, but I couldn’t be more numb to it all. Something broke inside of me yesterday, and I can’t find it in me to care anymore.
I’m going through the motions, opening the locker I never use before shoving random books into it and shuffling to my first hour class.
