NoI’ll miss you.NoTake care of yourself.
Nothing.Nothing.
She’s Ava Fantino, funny and friendly, but only on camera.Only on the dark-brown Chesterfield in her studio, where she makes every guest feel so fucking welcome.She’s the exact opposite at home, and if that got out, it would be the end of the world.But it won’t, any more than the news of what I did will.
Mom leaves the room, shuts the door.I clench my fists, dig my nails into the palms of my hands.Hard, harder.It doesn’t help.I notice my pulse racing.
I try to count silently back from fifty, but it’s no use.I only get as far as forty-four before I whirl around and pace through the room like a hunted animal.
I heave one of my black aluminum suitcases onto my bed and choke back a curse because I’m not sure which one it’s in.I should have marked it somehow.But I didn’t.Even though I should’ve known how quickly I’d need to get at my lighter once I was here.
Please don’t let them have gone through my suitcases.My fingers are shaking as I find the combination.There’s no slip of paper to say my baggage was checked.OK, that’s good.There’s hope.I open the suitcase and dig through my T-shirts.Come on.My heart is pounding in my throat.I’m dizzy as I open the second case.Sometimes I’m not sure if it’s low blood sugar when I feel like this or if it’s all just in my head.Either way, I want it to stop.Which only happens if I make it stop.
I laugh with relief as I find the lighter and sink to the floor by the bed.I snap back the cover, feel for my belt, and then, through the open window, I hear laughter echo up from the courtyard.
Fuck, I should stop.I’m not alone here and I have no idea if these Scottish people consider it necessary to knock before they enter a room.The place on the inside of my thigh might be the safest because nobody can see it, but I can only use it if I’m totally certain nobody will catch me.
I jump up and lock the door, then sit on the floor again and give in.The memories twitch through my head, flooding my mind.
Awful news breaking on the Upper West Side, 91st Street, where part of Ainslee School is apparently on fire.Over to our reporter on the scene for a live update...
The CNN presenter’s voice was practically shaking with excitement.I’d been in the car with Pax, Maresa, and Ash for ages by then.They’d seen the news on their phones, asked me questions; I’d shaken my head, downed shot after shot once we finally got to the club.It’s the last thing I remember about that night, but the memory’s seared on my brain.
The next morning, I woke up in Ash’s apartment next to Maresa, because we never learn.But that wasn’t what had made me queasy.I had switched off airplane mode on my phone and found countless messages from Mom and Dad.
Where are you?
Call us.
Screenshots.Catastrophe.
Multiple injuries after the fire on 91st Street, including an FDNY firefighter.
Breaking News—female firefighter killed in blaze.Mother of four, aged 42.
I read that and threw up in Ash’s bathroom.Somebody died.
Because of me.
Because of me.
And it feels like no time has passed since that day.Now I’m here, but the nightmare doesn’t end.
Why do you have to go?When are you coming home?Cleo’s huge eyes slowly filling with tears.
Because I’m a bad person.BecauseIought to be dead, not that firefighter who was only doing her fucking job.
God, this has to stop.
I fire up the lighter.
The relief is instant.I feel the heat, then the pain.I don’t pull my hand away.Not even when I can hardly stand it.I shut my eyes and let my head fall back.Count to five.No longer.I can’t risk the effect wearing off the way it happens if I do this too often.A couple of times a week instead of a month.A couple of times a day, but how can I help it if the days are going to be so shitty now?
Breathe.Focus on the pain.
Five.
I clamp my teeth together.
