Chapter Text
I can finally breathe
Dragging the blade across my arm, I watch as the cuts turn white.
“shit”
It is not bleeding. Why isn’t it bleeding?
Did I cut too deep?
I am frozen in place unable to move, to think, to do anything. Am I going to die? God, I don’t want to, I never meant for it to be like this. It just quiets down the voices, the thoughts, the guilt.
I let go of my breath as blood starts to drip.
false alarm.
Now how the hell am I going to hide this?
In moments like this I thank the person who made long sleeved summer tops that don’t make me feel like I’m inside an oven, I can be comfortable in them without worrying about my arm showing and focus on the case at hand.
Well, the cold case from 1867, because apparently, we ‘need to focus on our education’ and ‘we just solved a case last week’.
I would’ve gone to Laural, but she is currently with Judd and probably at Nonna’s.
Judd is not as subtle as he thinks he is.
I feel myself smile as I remember how he looked at her while she was scolding one of my cousins. That man is a goner.
“Bored?”
Flinching, I turned around to face Lia who apparently did not hear knocking.
“no”
“Try again”
“There is about 67% possibility that Michael and dean would get into a fight if we let them alone for another five minutes” Sloane informs me as a greeting.
I sigh “Alright I’m coming”
I tug my left sleeve down and follow them out of the room.
1 month later
I swear resetting the sober app’s timer has got to be the most humbling experience ever, I don’t know what happened I truly felt like I was getting better and I could finally live normally, or maybe at least not think about relapsing every two days.
At least this time I reached a week milestone which is the longest I’ve ever gone without it, I kinda feel proud but also disappointed that I can’t even go more than a week without it.
I swore that I was not going to be addicted to it, I was confident I could stop whenever I wanted, and I convinced myself of that. I guess it worked… until when I truly tried to get clean.
It is becoming harder and harder to hide it; I had to stop doing it on my arm because one time Laurel noticed a scar and asked me about it.
Thank God Lia was not present to tell that I’m lying.
I know that I can just wear long pants, and no one would notice, but it still scares me.
What if my pant leg rides up while I’m lying or asleep and it so happens that someone came and noticed it. What if they asked me about it, would could I tell them the truth?
Don’t get me wrong, I want someone to know, I want them to hug me and tell me it's fine, and everything is going to be alright. I crave that to the point that I once caught myself purposely sleeping in a position that would show the scars if someone looked a little closer.
It’s like my mind is split into two parties and I don’t know what to do.
I used to not understand why someone would do such a horrible thing to themselves and God would I kill to be back to those oblivious times.
And the worst thing is that if I don’t relapse my thoughts would consume me whole, memories of my mother tainted red, the director laughing as I stab the knife into her chest, but no blood is coming out and she lifts her head and smiles, she smiles t me before disintegrating into ashes, and I am standing across, shocked, frozen, helpless.
...
I don’t want to hate myself, I want to like me, to see my reflection without feeling repulsed, to be able to look at dean and know that I am worthy of his love, that I deserve it. To chat with Michael and Judd, shop with Lia and Sloane, and solve cases with agent and director Briggs without thinking about what it would be like if I wasn’t there. If I hadn’t been alive.
I’m not suicidal. I don’t look forward to dying.
I don’t.
I just want to be at peace.
Is that too much to ask for?
I know this is just a temporary solution, a short-lasting relief. But oh, what a pleasurable addicting relief.
but these aftermath hours are the happiest I’ve been, the most carefree I feel, I even wonder why was I so sad in the first place? My life is just fine!
I know that my mom’s death is not my fault entirely, and I think I can live with that.
I have friends and family who are by my side, I don’t think I’m ever going to relapse again.
I think I’m finally free.
…
..
.
I thought I was finally free.