“Dahlia!”
More sobs fill my head, and all the voices join as one. Every so often, one stands out from the rest.
“Stab yourself.”
“Cut. Cut. Cut.”
My lips move with drowned-out words, and I don’t know how long they yell, but it feels like an eternity. They promise that if I cut myself, they’ll stop.
“Cut,” I cry. “Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut.”
I shake my head and hold my hands tighter over my ears as they get louder. It’s like someone is screaming right next to me, but no one is here. It’s just me and these demons. Tears sting my eyes and break free to trail a wet path down my cheeks.
“Dahlia.”
They won’t shut up, no matter how much I yell at them. I scream and snap open my eyes. I grab a knife from the drawer and hold it to my wrist. My hands tremble, so when I slide the sharp end of the knife over my skin, it forms a jagged cut. The voices laugh, blending together and screaming louder for me to keep cutting. I whimper as I cut another line, then another, until blood wells to the surface and drips to the floor.
“Dahlia!”
A tattooed hand slaps the knife out of my hold and spins me around to face a terrified Jaxon. He grabs my arm where I cut myself, then yells something that I can’t hear. Not when the voices are still yelling at me. Fear clouds his eyes, and he grabs a dish towel to wrap around my forearm. He applies pressure, and I wince with a scream.
“Look at me, flower.” Jaxon’s strong voice filters through all the voices and screaming.
They die down until I hear myself repeatedly screaming, “Cut!”
“Dahlia,” Jaxon says in a strained voice. He pulls his phone out of his pocket with one hand while still holding my bleeding arm with the other. “Look at me, baby.”
I struggle to breathe as another panic attack slams into me, knocking the breath out of my lungs. My stomach churns, and I swear I’m about to shit myself because of how terrified I am.
“Jaxon,” I cry.
He snaps his gaze to me, terror still evident. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay.”
Fat tears roll down my cheeks. I want to fall into his embrace, but I’m frozen in place, unable to move. All I can do is sob and whisper his name repeatedly, hoping it’s enough to chase away the panic.
“What’s going on?” Mom says as she walks into the kitchen. She looks at me first, then down to thefloor where the mess of glass and sourdough starter lies scattered near my bare feet. “My jar! No!”
“You’re more worried about a fucking jar?” Jaxon yells.
Mom chokes on a cry, and she rushes toward us with her hands reaching toward the glass pieces. “This was my grandmother’s! It’s an antique!”
I sway on my feet, unable to find balance. Jaxon steadies me and holds his phone to his ear. I’m assuming he’s calling the ambulance, and whatever he hears on the other end sets his jaw in a hard line.
Mom gathers the broken pieces and places them on the counter before she spins and faces me. I stumble back a step, and Jaxon follows me with a glare directed toward my mother.
She stabs a finger at me. “I can’t ever have anything nice because you’re a selfish little bitch. I know you’re faking all of this to get out of trouble.”
Tears burn my eyes, and her cruel words repeat in my head.
Mom storms toward me and raises her hand. Before her palm connects with my cheek, Jaxon drops his phone and catches her wrist.
“Hurt her, and I’ll ruin something else of yours,” Jaxon says through his teeth. “You’re more worried about a broken fucking jar than your daughter who was cutting herself?”
Mom’s eyes widen, her thin lips parted in horror. She looks at me with no sympathy and turns back to Jaxon. “You won’t hurt me.”
He leans toward her, the corners of his lips curling into a mocking smile. I shiver and hesitantly step closer to him.
“Hurt Dahlia, and let’s find out together if I’m lying.” He arches an eyebrow, challenging Mom.
