Do I want him to?
Has Tommy told the rest of my family?
Am I forming feelings for DiAngelo?
What if I am, and something happens to him?
Don’t forget, it’s almost the anniversary of Craig’s death.
What if DiAngelo ends up dead because of me, as well?
Would his murder be just as gruesome?
My ears begin to ring, and nausea roils in my stomach. Before I know it, I’m in the bathroom with the door locked. The closet light shines into the room, but I keep the main overhead light off. It feels safer that way. Tucked away in the back of the apartment, sitting on the woven shower mat, I stare at the candle I retrieved from my suitcase.
I told myself I wouldn’t do this.
I want to be strong enough to weather the storm, but the walls are closing in on me, and I need to make it stop. When desperation hits like this, there is nothing I wouldn’t do to escape it.
I need the burn.
I need to believe that everything will be okay.
I need relief from the crippling fear.
The scrape of my lighter rips through the silence. As the flame takes hold of the wick, tingles of anticipation dance from my scalp down my spine—the same sort of tingles DiAngelo brought on.
I haven’t done this in a while. A part of me hoped it was a thing of the past. I should have known better. I’m too messed up to be miraculously normal.
As the words float across my mind, I scoot my butt away from the wall and lean back with my legs extended so that my body is curved. I roll my shirt up and tuck it under my bra and push my leggings down to expose my lower belly.
My breathing hitches.
Two hushed voices hiss in my mind, one pleading with me to stop, the other insisting that I need this. While my mind argues with itself, my hand holding the candle tilts, and the wax drips onto the discolored skin below my belly button.
I’ve learned this is the easiest place to hide the marks. I’ve also learned that the higher I hold my hand, the less it burns. Sometimes I need it to burn. But I try to start light, hoping to assuage the urge with minimal damage. This time, my hand is high enough that the trail of drying wax won’t blister, but I still hiss from the sting.
My head drops back as relief washes over me.
However, like the ocean waves on a sandy beach, the sensation quickly drains away, leaving me dry and empty. Empty enough to be filled with a brand new serving of shame at my weakness.
I hate that I do this to myself.
I hate that a part of me revels in the pain.
All of it makes me wonder if I don’t deserve everything that’s happened to me. My husband’s murder. The threats on my life.
I am weak and pathetic, just like Tommy said.
Tears pool in my eyes, and I align my hand over my stomach again when a quiet knock sounds at the door.
“Rina?” DiAngelo’s voice is gruff but soft. Almost tender.
“Yeah?”
“I ordered us a pizza—you okay with meat lovers?”
The shift in gears takes me a second. “Yeah, yeah, that’s good.”
