Page 190 of Mad Girl

“I did keep my promise to you. This was an accident, Michael. You have to believe me.”

“There was never anything in the trash. Your dad described the way he found you standing there, with blood everywhere, and that’s how I know you’re lying⁠—”

“You talked to my dad about this?”

“—because you were enjoying it. So stop with the bullshit, Elliot. Admit it.”

My eyes stung. “I’m not going to admit to something that isn’t true.”

“Oh my God,” Michael said, wiping a hand down his face. “Here, you talk to her. I can’t anymore. I’m done.”

The phone jostled around until your face filled my screen, deep lines of concern forming between your eyebrows. “Elliot,” you said gently. “Tell the truth.”

“I am telling the truth.”

“Come on,” you said. “This summer hasn’t been easy, has it? Bree’s there with her girlfriend, and you’re on your own a lot. You’re missing me and Michael, and your birthday’s coming up. Maybe hurting yourself was your way of coping. Maybe you never intended to cut yourself that badly, and that’s where the accident lies—in that you went too far this time.”

“What? I didn’t cut myself at all, Casey. Screw you.”

“Okay,” you said. “I can see you aren’t willing to be honest about this, so I’ll just⁠—”

“No. Why don’t you and Michael both go fuck yourselves?” I ended the call, then tossed my phone on the bed.

Downstairs, I tried talking to my dad again, but he swiped his coffee mug off the kitchen table, told me he wasn’t ready to discuss it yet, and escaped to the sunroom.

For the next few days, everyone avoided me. At meals, they talked amongst themselves as if I wasn’t even there. But I still showed up, hoping to show them all, hoping to somehow appease my dad. See! I wanted to protest. I’m here. I’m acting completely normal.

And then, one cloudy morning, I came downstairs to find all three adults sitting quietly at the kitchen table. Something about them seemed off. I sensed it immediately. But the biggest red flag? For the first time in days, they looked directly at me, their expressions gravely serious as I approached the table.

“Elliot,” Nic said. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

Dread ricocheted through me, but I sat down, anyway.

Nic took my hand. “While I’m extremely proud of how well you’ve coped under the circumstances this past year, you can’t keep hurting yourself like this. I can’t allow it anymore. You need to go to a place where people are better equipped to help you.”

“What? No,” I whispered, trying to stand, but he put his hands on my arms to stop me—to hold me down.

“There’s a treatment center in Arizona, and you need to go there for a while. They can give you the help you need.”

The papers in his desk. They weren’t for a treatment center. They were for a psychiatric hospital—in the middle of nowhere. It resembled a fancy prison.

“No,” I said, head shaking. “No.”

“You have to stop hurting yourself, Elliot. We have to do something to make you better.”

“No!” I cried, the tears coming fast.I shoved my bandaged hand in the air. “I didn’t do this, I swear. It wasn’t on purpose, Dad. You have to believe me.”

“Elliot—”

“I haven’t hurt myself since”—I scrambled to think—“since I can’t remember when. I didn’t mean to claw myself during the panic attack. I didn’t know I was doing it. I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t,” Nic said. “This has nothing to do with the panic attack—that wasn’t your fault. This is about what you did to your hand. This is about the many times you’ve self-harmed over the years.”

I clutched his hand, crying and shaking, not caring how humiliating it was to beg him to reconsider or how pathetic I probably sounded. “Don’t send me away. Please. I didn’t cut myself on purpose. I swear I didn’t. I’m telling the truth this time.”

“Elliot, stop.”

“Dad,” I cried, squeezing his hand so hard he winced. “You said you didn’t want to send me to a place like that.”