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Not anymore.

“Happy birthday, Elara.” Her voice reaches my ears but I don’t turn around and take a turn as we leave the room.

“Oh, yeah. Happy birthday, Ela.” He chuckles as we take another turn, choosing to take the stairs as if he’s anxious we might run into my friends in elevator.

“Are you old enough to have sex with me now?” He tilts his head, his voice mocking.

“As if that would stop you.” I hiss and pause.

His black boots halt beside mine and I cross my legs. “What?” he barks at my scrunched up face.

“I want to pee.” I answer, my voice almost whiny and squeaky, causing him to make a repelled face. “I drank a lot of water on the way.” I clutch my stomach and he recoils, taking a step away from me.

“At home—”

“I cannot hold it—”

He growls, eyeing me up and down, his jaw ticking, contemplating, measuring, and I’m holding my breath.

He snarls at me. “Make it quick. No funny business.” He warns and only moves when I give him a firm nod.

He pushes me inside the washroom after finding our way to it and stands guard outside.

No funny business.

I bend down to check all the cubicles and gasp with relief when I find all of them empty.

My hand trembles with anticipation of my next moves. Time is up.

I think I’ve finally reached my limit.

A nervous chuckle leaves my mouth as I stand in front of the mirror.

Make. It. Quick.

I gulp as I pull out the scalpel from my pocket, my hands quaking, knowing this cut won’t ever heal, just like all the scars I have, deeply rooted in my brain.

I’ve always wondered what the opposite of suicide is. What the opposite of this feeling is.

The one that’s lived inside me for the past six years.

I wonder what the other side looks like. Or maybe I used to wonder. Because I’m fine.

Or I’m going to be.

I roll the sleeves of my t-shirt up to my elbows as my grip tightens on the scalpel in my hand.

Tears stream down my eyes while I have an entirely contradicting smile on my face.

I’m going to be free soon.

I’m getting to choose the kind of pain I want and it’s all I’ve ever wanted—a choice.

A choice to say no. And a choice to say yes.

An obstinate look mars my face as I tighten my shoulders and fist.

The green vein in my left-hand popping and I place the scalpel on it; a shuddering almost final breath leaves me.