Page 42 of The Blackmail of Denise Randall

“Richard come look at her thumb!” Mom turns her eyes to mine. “Have you been self-inflicting pain to any other part of your body?”

I jerk my hand, but Mom won’t let go. Pain shoots across my chest and I feel as though I’m suffocating. The room feels as though it’s an inferno. I have to get away. Mom’s fingers feel as though they’re digging into my skin as she grips my hand, preventing me from escaping. I need some space between us. If I don’t get air soon, I’m going to pass out. Dad begins walking up the stairs, and with each step he takes it feels as though my mom’s hand is tightening. My other hand reaches for my throat to make sure there isn’t anything there, because it feels like it’s being squeezed.

“Let go of me,” I cry.

“Just let Daddy look,” Mom pleads. “Calm down, Sweetheart.”

“No,” I whimper. “Let me go. What’s wrong with you? I want to go to my room.” I use my other hand to push against her.

“Denise!” Mom gasps. She loses her balance and her foot slips off the step. My heart stops as Mom slips, but Dad runs up behind her and helps steady her on the next step.

I just pushed my mother. I pushed my mother down the stairs. What the fuck is wrong with me? I shake my head in disbelief. Shameful tears fill my eyes, and I quickly turn around and rush up the rest of the stairs. I run into my room and lock the door, sliding my back against it as sobs wreck my body.

What’s wrong with me? What would’ve happened if my dad wasn’t there to stop my mom from falling?

I drop my head in my hands and sway my body from side to side. No, no, no. I’m losing it. I’m completely falling apart. The pain in my chest worsens as my body begins shaking. I crawl along the floor all the way to my bathroom. I reach the cabinet underneath the sink and feel around until I find my secret stash. My breathing is staggered as I gasp to catch my breath and try to control my sobbing. My face feels wet and sticky from salty tears and snot. Taking two pills from the bottle, I quickly suck them into my mouth. Once I’ve sealed the cap back on the bottle, I cup my hands to gather water from the sink to wash them down. Then I fill my hands with water again and splash my face.

I stumble out of the bathroom and barely make my way to the bed before I collapse.

I wake up to the feel of a cold cloth against my forehead. My eyes flutter open and then squint against the light.

“Hello Sweetheart.”

“Mom,” I croak.

“Sshhh. I think you had a panic attack. You haven’t had one of those since high school.”

That you know of, I think to myself. But I don’t say it. From the worried lines creasing her face, I know she’d only feel guilty and freak out more if she knew I was still having them. I guess she kind of does now. Or at the very least, she probably suspects it.

“Mom,” I wet my lips. “I’m so sorry about earlier. I don’t—” I sigh. “I don’t know what happened. I have no excuse.”

“Your anxiety. You had an attack. We are going to have to talk about this. I only want to help, baby. Don’t you know that? I love you so much. I got scared, and probably provoked you further.”

But it wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I open my mouth to tell her, but then swallow my words. I want to tell her I’m fine…now. I’ll be fine for at least a few hours. I might even last until tomorrow. She’s waiting for me to speak so I give her a half-confession, and half-ass apology.

“I’ve been so stressed. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ll make an appointment for you to see—”

“No.” If I go to a doctor, they may recognize other things—such as my little habit. “I promise to start sleeping and eating better. That’s probably all it is. And I’ll cut back on activities that are adding unnecessary stress.”

Mom doesn’t look convinced. I raise up in the bed and notice I’d been covered up. She must’ve found me and tucked me in. Leaning forward, I wrap my arms around her and press her tightly against me. “I’m sorry for worrying you and lashing out. I promise I’ll start talking about stuff more. I just don’t want to worry you. I wanted to be the one kid you didn’t have to stress over.”

Her arms squeeze tightly against me. “Oh, baby, no. Denise.”

“I love you, Mom. I’ll always be your baby.”

“Always.” She rubs her hand along my back. “Promise you’ll take better care of yourself and talk to me.”

“Promise.”

I spend most of the day moving my belongings in and redecorating the guest house. My body is starting to tire, so to keep me going, I reach back under my old bathroom cabinet for my second bottle. I’ll need to move these and find a new hiding place. Leaving one bottle behind, I grab my stash and hurry back to the guest house to finish.

When I sit down for a break, I can’t help but wonder what the guys’ plans are for tonight. Too tempted to find out, I head to Rachel and Trent’s house to fish for information from her and Alice.

“Why do you ask?” Rachel questions, as she pours us glasses of sweet tea.

“Well, when Keaton handcuffed me, Trent had asked if he was going out with them. Just curious.”

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