Tonight qualifies.
I carefully slide the key into the lock, unlatch it, then slip inside her apartment. I shut the door, lock it, and set the bag down on the console table, shrug out of my coat, put it on the coatrack, and loosen my tie. I pick up the bag and move toward the bedroom, tugging at the tie and tossing it on the couch.
Her door is ajar. The curtains are down, so it's darker than normal. I turn on the hallway light, blink a few times, and freeze.
The vanity mirror is a shattered mess. Spiderweb cracks radiate from the center with shards glinting on the carpet like broken teeth. Streaks of red lipstick smear across the glass in furious zigzags, and LOVE HURTS is partially legible beneath the chaos. Tubes of lipstick lie scattered on the vanity top and floor, caps off, lipstick bullets broken or mashed flat with pins stuck in them.
Jesus Christ.
I drop the bag on the floor. It lands with a thud.
Blue's choked sob fills the air. I turn toward the bed, but there are only crumbled blankets. So I glance around the room and rush to the corner.
Blue's there, naked, knees drawn up, back against the wall. Blood-soaked, white bandages wrap her right hand. Another one circles her upper left thigh, tighter, and stained red in spots.
Tears fill her big, blue eyes, and her hair falls all over the place. Her shoulders rise and fall in shallow, uneven breaths. Copper, wax, and her jasmine shampoo flare in the air.
Guilt, concern, and fear crack inside my chest. The dark hunger I carried here disappears.
I kneel in front of her, muttering, "Jesus, Bluebird. What did you do to yourself?"
Mascara streaks down her cheeks in black rivers. Her red-rimmed eyes shine with heartbreaking wreckage. For a second, she stares, like she's not sure I'm real. Then her lips part. Her barely audible voice cracks, "Red."
My eyes flick to the bandages on her thigh. The blood is fresh enough that it's still spreading slowly. I keep my voice level. "How deep are your cuts?"
She swallows. "Not…not stitches. Just…shallow."
I reach out, slow, and lift her bandaged hand. The gauze is damp and heat flares past the bandage. "What did you cut yourself with?"
"That one wasn't intentional," she admits.
Intentional, meaning she meant to create her thigh wound.
Anger mixes with sadness deep inside me. I sit next to her and slide my arm behind her, tugging her head to my chest. I kiss the top of her hair. "How did it happen?"
She sputters, "The-the-the glass did it." A loud sob vibrates against my chest. Her entire body shakes harder.
"Shh. It's okay, Bluebird," I lie.
Her self-harm is getting worse.
I let her cry until she calms a bit. Then I ask, "How did the mirror break?"
A bitter little laugh escapes her. "I punched it after I wrote on it. That's how my hand got injured. But I didn't mean for it to happen. I only meant for the pins to hurt me."
Pins.
I glance at her thigh and the blood spots. My stomach twists. I lift the hem of her dress higher, and ask, "Why the thigh?"
Her breath hitches. "I… I don't know. I... I just needed to feel in control of the pain."
Christ.
The twisted eagerness I carried here no longer exists. Fury at myself for letting it get this far, and a bone-deep need to fix it, takes hold. Yet I'm a trained professional. I know that while I can help, Blue has to work on fixing herself.
I should have been focusing on her mental health.
Her body violently trembles.
