“Damn,” I huff out a breath of irritation. But then I look down, remembering the lighter in my palm, and my heart jolts again—for an entirely different reason.
I beeline to the bathroom, locking it behind me. I’ve never been able to lock a door before in my life. The relief I find with such a simple action quells part of the small, broken kid inside of me.
Back pressed against the door, I take a moment. My breath comes out a little faster in anticipation as I tighten my fist against the glossy, smooth texture of the lighter. It’s been a while since I’ve felt the sting.
I strip my clothes off with haste, ignoring the way my boxers stick to my groin as I peel them off, and plop down on the toilet lid. I hiss at the cold against my bare skin. It creaks as I shift around.
Toes flexing against the tile floor, my thumb slides over the metal ridges, pushing down. A sharp hiss followed by a flicker of static and then a small wave of heat.
I watch the tiny flame flicker around, glowing in bright, blurred colors. I wave my hand around the flame, through it, above it as my mind flashes back to the very first time.
***
On. Off.
In. Out.
I time my breaths with the flick of the lighter. The sharp ridges on the wheel biting into my swollen thumb. The fizz of the spark igniting the flame. The smell of flint burning.
I want to close my eyes. They’re heavy from sleep deprivation—I mean, that’s what it has to be at this point. Going on four days without a wink of sleep. But I know the moment I do, I’ll fall into the deepest pits of unconsciousness, and this isn’t the type of home I can sleep soundly in.
The harsh intake of a snore has me tensing underneath the blanket pulled around me. It’s paper thin, the flame flickering in front of my face more than enough light for me to see through the goddamn thing.
It does nothing to fight off the cold, but it’s something. And something’s always better than nothing.
When my thumb starts to sting, I release the trigger, letting the lighter dangle between my index finger and thumb. I stare at it in all shades of monochrome as it sways back and forth.
What if…
Don’t think,a sharp, nasty little voice screeches in my mind. It’s not the first time I’ve heard it—in fact, we have conversations often. After all, what else is there to do when you’re living in a hell you can’t escape?
Using every ounce of strength I have left in my riddled body, I press the stinging metal to the crook of my arm. I have to sink my teeth into my tongue to block the groan from falling out of my mouth and causing irreparable damage.
All I taste is copper and elation.
The heat fades fast—too fast—but the dull ache it leaves behind makes it worth it. Makes it addicting.
I lose track of how many burns I give myself. Over my forearms, my thighs, even my calves. The inner thigh hurts the worst—the most sensitive skin just in the crease.
Glancing down at the red welt on my arm, at the others scattered over my body, the promise of scars lingering, I sigh, hating it as much as I need it.
Sometimes, trying to find your own voice in a sea of them gets a little…complicated.
***
When the skin of my thumb starts to char, I release the stinging metal with a relished hiss.
With wide eyes and lungs filled to capacity, I flip the lighter between my fingers and shove the metal down against the soft, sensitive flesh of my inner thigh—just below the supple skin where my leg meets my groin.
“Shit,” I groan at the initialfuck this is stupid, why would I do thismoment. But then, my eyes light up with adrenaline, and I start the process over. I lose track, never stopping the tedious technique until my eyes roll into the back of my head, white blurring, fading, in and out in heavy, drugging waves. I sway, hair tickling my spine before I slump back against the tank of the toilet.
I can’t bite back a moan of overwhelming satisfaction.
I’m not a masochist. Okay…maybe I am, but this has never been about that, per se. I don’t actively seek to hurt myself. It’s only ever been about needing to feel good when everything else hurts so bad. A reminder that I am the one who chooses what affects me.
And the sting of the welts, the twisted, gnarly smiley face scars they leave behind help keep that reminder alive. Especially now that things are getting…warped.
Dizzy with empty relief, I slap the lighter on the counter and release a shaky breath before I jump in the shower to wash Peris’s mark on me away, like it was never there to begin with.
