“I’d like to see you after class.”
She sighs as though it’s the last thing she wants to do. “Fine.” When she walks away it’s with a deliberate sway to her hips that I’ve always admired but have never been able to emulate. Her smile could rival the sun in brilliance when she finally takes her seat across from me. I can practically hear her squeal of giddiness playing across her face, it’s not until lab time twenty minutes later that she finally gets the chance to talk to me.
“He so wants me.” I can’t say whether that’s true or not but I’m sure she isn’t looking for my opinion. When Mallory gets it in her head that she’s right about something, anyone else’s opinion is pointless. “It’s only a matter of time.” She heads to the opposite side of the room to collect the materials needed to dissect the formaldehyde-soaked frog pinned inside the cushioned silver pan in front of me.
Taking the scalpel from the variety of surgical instruments she brings back, I glance up, uttering, “If you say so.” I hate where the conversation is going. I hate that she’s pursuing this, knowing fully well that it’ll end badly. She’s my best friend. We’ve known each other since ninth grade. She’s been there with me through it all despite the fact that I’ve never shared the truth with her. She’s aware I’m in therapy, and just chalks it up to me being adopted. She’s asked questions but has never pushed for answers because she knew I wasn’t ready. That fact doesn’t bother me more than moments like these when I’m unable to tell her how much of a trigger this is for me. But I can’t. I won’t. So I say nothing and rightly so; she doesn’t notice. I think she’s correlated my silence for attentiveness a long time ago. She’s gotten used to it by now. With half an ear on what she’s saying, I bring the scalpel to the green flesh of the frog, wishing desperately that it was my skin that the sharp blade was slicing apart. The cuts I did last night suddenly don’t feel like enough. I could’ve gone deeper. I could’ve done more. I want to go on a binge. That sudden thought brings with it an influx of yearning so visceral it’s like a punch to my solar plexus. The slow, ever present creep of anxiety forms like a fine film over my thoughts making it impossible for me to remember any of my coping skills. But then again, I really don’t want to cope right now. Panic is a ball and chain around my ankle, dragging me down into the dark chasm of fear that sits beneath my soul, where my demons lie in wait. My heart is thrashing fast and hard against my breastbone; the pain becoming too much to bear. There is an invisible chloroform-soaked cloth over my nose, slowly stealing my breath until my lungs burn for air.
“Aylee? Are you okay?” No. I don’t think I am. I hear the concern in her voice. I see it smeared across her beautiful face. I turn my head to find everyone’s eyes staring at me, looking on in amused fascination like I’m the main attraction at the circus. My reality becomes distorted as I find the walls closing in on me.
My feet take off, pounding the ground as if of their own accord, moving faster than my mind can keep up. “Aylee!” I’m running. Where to, I have no idea. The hallway, the lockers, and the locked wooden doors all pass in a blur. I need air. I need—
Cut.
Cut.
Cut…to release the valve.
Cut…to release the pressure.
Cut…to bleed the stain.
I have an objective. I need a destination. The girls’ bathroom is straight ahead and around the corner. I just need to make it there. Relief is just within reach; just a little further. My arms and legs are moving swiftly, propelling me forward. All I can think about is cutting. The self-mutilating addict is roaring inside me, thrashing for the pain, for the blood. Nothing and no one else matters. The scalpel is in my hand. I didn’t leave it behind because subconsciously I knew I would need it. I’m holding onto the blade on purpose, squeezing my hand tight enough that the sharpness of the blade bites into my palm. The incredible need to do more takes my breath away. With all my focus centered on the desire to mutilate my body, it comes as a complete shock when I collide into the impenetrable wall of reality. The impact knocks the air out of me, sending me crashing to the floor. Shaking my head to try and gather my bearings, I notice the large pair of black boots rooted in a stance in front of me. Men’s boots, scuffed and worn.
I follow the opening of the unlaced boots up strong, masculine legs incased in a pair of black, fitted jeans. Tipping my head back, I take further inventory of a powerfully-lean body wrapped in a simple black V-neck shirt. Even before my eyes land on that distinct geometric star covering the throat, I know it’s him. He has that sort of aura. That unmistakably raw, palpable magnetism that makes it impossible to confuse him with anyone else. I’m looking up and he’s staring down at me with molten silver eyes that cut like razor blades. Just when I think he can’t get any more intimidating, he lowers his full body down to my height. Sitting on his haunches, he raises a large, tattoo-covered hand to my face. I hold my breath, confusion and wonder battling for dominance as I wait to see if he’ll actually touch me. The pain from my fall doesn’t register. The frantic desire to hurt myself is now a low throb just beneath my flesh, seemingly subdued by his presence.
“Well, what do you know…” There’s a raspy quality to his voice that’s not at all unpleasant. “It’s my little stalker,” he says, wryly, the corner of his mouth lifting into a half smirk. Heat explodes in my veins at the realization of what he just said. Mortification blazes so hot beneath my skin, I can feel the fire across my entire face.
He knows.
Frantic and anxious, I lower my eyes at the need to avoid his knowing gaze.
“You’re crying.” It’s not a question. Ifeelmore thanseehim lower his hand. My cheek remains untouched.
I shake my head, “I’m not.” It’s a pathetic lie, one made more evident when I raise my hand to swipe at my cheeks, both covered with tears I didn’t even know I was shedding.
There’s a wryness to his smirk. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you can’t lie for shit. Come on.” When he rises to his feet, he extends a hand down to me. It’s a hesitant few seconds before I set my hand within his. His grip is strong, unyielding, as he hauls me to my feet without effort. He holds my gaze with diamond-hard eyes filled with shrewd intelligence but devoid of emotions. My eyes dance across his face, and he’s standing so close, I’m in awe of his unconventional beauty. He’s like a statue, a sculpture molded by a divine artist in homage of a god, made solely to be worshipped.
“Aylee, right?”
I blink, curious as an odd, unfamiliar sensation fires through me at the sound of my name on his full lips. “Yeah.”
Something unexplainable crackles in the air between us, or maybe it’s just my imagination going on overdrive, as I become too aware of my hand still firmly held within his grasp. He lowers his head, his hair falling across his forehead, and the urge to smooth it back is an impulse I have to wrestle down.
“You’re bleeding.” I blink twice—it’s my mind’s attempt to catch up to what he just said. He turns my hand so that my palm faces the ceiling. I’ve lost the scalpel somewhere in between my fall and him helping me to my feet, but the evidence that I’d been holding something sharp is in the smear of blood coating my palm. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to hold sharp objects by the blade?” My attempt to pull my hand away is futile as he retains his hold. “Or maybe you meant to.” His pointed stare eviscerates all pretenses and for an infinite moment I’m left naked to him, exposed in the way it touches the most vulnerable part of me. I can’t—I can’t let him see the ugliness. Can’t let him see that terrible, terrible stain. Wrenching my hand away, I stumble back a few steps. My eyes flick to his face just in time to see him recover from a slight dose of shock at my sudden movement. Curiosity molds his expression as he fixes astute, penetrating gray eyes on me.
“A bit of advice?”
I make it a point to look at everything but his face.
“Don’t cut too deep.”
He walks away then without a second glance back, his words hanging heavy in the air in front of me as I watch him disappear behind the double wooden doors at the end of the hallway. I’m unsure of how long I stand there but it takes the shrill ring of the bell to pull me out of my trance. Students exit their respective classrooms filling in the hallway like one huge thunderous wave. Out of my peripheral vision, I spot the blade to my left against a row of lockers and quickly pick it up. Shoving it into my pocket, I stand up straight and prepare to discreetly glide past the hallway mob.
“Aylee!”
I only notice Mallory when she breaks through the throng lugging my backpack and canvas bag as she hurries toward me.
“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me. Tell me you’re okay?”
