Page 143 of Seizing Control: Part One

The surveillance footage was clear.

My dad killed Zeke.

Slit his throat and left him to bleed out.

Bleed out...

Hands itching, skin crawling, I rush into the empty farmhouse. Zeke’s old room is mine. My uncle helped me haul the small amount of belongings I brought with me over to the house this morning. My girls brought me new provisions, for the fridge and the pantry, and helped me set up the kitchen and bathroom with everything I could possibly need.

I felt Nadia’s assessing gaze scan everything that entered the farmhouse.

She relaxed when it became clear that I hadn’t smuggled in a razor.

The problem with her vigilance is that it’s easy to pre-empt.

The shaver was already here.

An old straight razor belonging to Zeke.

I’d already hidden it before she arrived.

Right now, as my grief hits like a deluge and Alex’s voice taunts me, I am teetering dangerously close to giving into my need. The craving to purge the poison is overpowering. All the filth inside of me must go.

I’m going under.

Drowning in treachery.

Suspended in misery.

The mattress is easy to lift. I extricate the blade, flicking it open with one hand. As the confusing thoughts in my head canter through me with evil intent, I run my index finger along the sharp edge. Blood wells. I taste it. The sting in my skin as my saliva meets the thin cut makes me shiver.

I need the pain.

All of it.

My feet carry me to the bathroom before I have decided to go there. I climb into the enamel bath, melancholy filling me like venom, as I contemplate the purplish veins on the inside of my wrists.

Two vertical cuts and time.

That’s all it would take to be free.

Nausea claws at my throat as I envision the white tub filling with the metallic misery that my broken heart pumps through me. The leggings I’m wearing are no match for the sharp cutthroat razor when I slice through the material. When I nick myself in the rush to expose my skin, prickles of relief spread over my scalp.

I’m electrified.

Ready.

I stroke the old scars with my bleeding fingertip.

Each thin ridge is a painful memory. My chest tightens to the point where I can’t breathe properly. I count the lines, losing my way when I reach seventeen. It makes me whimper. Another failure. So much pain. Too much damage. I hit the enamel side with my left hand. Once. Twice. My knuckles split, and I watch the blood run down my forearm.

Drop by drop.

Crimson red dirties the shiny white.

The flare of agony in my right wrist reminds me that I sprained it when I punched my husband in the face for leaving me. Even though my best friend told me that he deserved, my hypocrisy causes another flare of longing. I crave punishment. To purge. To make amends.

Hurting Slash was wrong.

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