I need themgone.
Without listening to her reply, I stumble toward my front door, fishing my keys out of my pocket and getting blood on my shirt as I do. Every beat of my heart seems to make the blood flow a little faster, and I don’t bother putting my keys away as I walk inside. I just…drop them.
That feeling is back, the one I've been trying all day to push aside.
It’s alltoo much. Everything is too loud again, from the heater to the fridge, to the electricity in the walls.
Noel or Noah shrieks and I trip at the noise, reminding myself that it’s fine.
I’m fine.
I’m.
Fine.
Somehow, I make it to the bathroom without really being conscious of the route my feet take. Somehow I do it without falling over something, though once I do I just stand there, watching my pale reflection in the mirror. My blonde hair is limp, and my light blue eyes are so pale, they look like the panic and loudness have pulled out all the color until I’m just a ghost.
God, I wish I was a ghost right now.
I’m fine, I’m fine?—
This isn’t the end of the world, I tell myself as panic crawls up my throat. My palms ache, the electricity whirs, and every breath seems to thrust my heart into overdrive. I need to be alone, but I know from experience it’ll take an hour or more to get rid of my mom, my step-dad, and their terrible children.
I know they’ll want to stay. They’ll want to chat. They’ll try to talk about all the things I’m doing wrong while the twins run through my little house like bulls in a china shop.
I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m?—
The front door closes and distantly I hear my mom saying something, calling something that might be my name. But I can’t pull my eyes from my reflection in the mirror. My hands hurt more than they did earlier, but I’m not looking at them. Dimly, I remember getting the first aid kit from under the cabinet.
I think.
I swear I did at some point in the last minute.
Maybe they hurt because I’m bandaging them, even though something feels wrong with that statement.
Why do my hands hurt so badly?
“Fern?” Mom’s voice echoes in the hallway, making me wince. The sound wars with the buzzing electricity that’s oppressive in my ears, and the way my hands just hurt so badly that it makes me grit my teeth.
I’m fine. I’m fine.
I’m fine?—
“FERN!” My mom’s scream drags me out of my thoughts, and I stare at her, puzzled by the sudden draining of color from her face, and the way her eyes aren’t fixed on my face, but on my hands. “Oh my god, Fern.What did you do?”
Finally I look down, seeing the small scissors clutched in one hand. My knuckles are white from being curled tightly around them while my other hand lies flat against the sink as I dig, dig,dig?—
The blood is the last thing I notice before my mom suddenly grabs me, already yelling for Nathaniel as she chucks the scissors against the far wall and covers my hand in a sage green hand towel.
Rather than being worried about what I’ve done, all I can think of is how the blood isn’t going to come out, that it’ll ruin the color scheme of my bathroom if it stains.
Priorities, after all, are important.
Chapter 2
Fern Hollis.
Twenty-three.
