Page 18 of Warmer, Colder

Unwanted

Each tacked-on sentiment is a jab into an open lesion, the pain causing me to lash out.

“It’s not fair!” I scream as my head makes impact with the edge of the table. “It’s not fair.” Another smack. “It’s not fair.” My anger dissolves into a sob as my forehead makes violent contact with the wood again. And again, and again, and again, but the voice remains close and persistent. “I’m enough. I’m enough. I’m enough,” I whimper the affirmation I desperately want to believe. Instead of conviction, all I get is the first rumblings of a pulsing headache.

Beyond the throbbing, my mother’s unsympathetic advice haunts me for the hundredth time. “The sooner you accept your lot in life, the better, Anastasia. It’s time to stop playing pretend; for god’s sake, you’re too old for these childish fantasies. It’s getting embarrassing.” Fourteen or twenty-three, the words crush me beneath their steel-toed boot all the same.

Drawing uneven breaths into my lungs, dense air clogs my lungs, thick and burning like the fumes of freshly poured asphalt. As I find a rhythm between inhales and exhales, spots in my vision begin to clear, but one lingers too long. I turn to the left quickly, hoping to catch the earlier-suspected intruder by surprise, but there’s nothing. No one.

The snap of skin on skin reverberates around the room as I throw a sharp slap across my cheek. Instead of clearingmy mind, it forces me to come face-to-face with my pathetic reflection. The muscles in my forearm ache as I teeter on the edge of ramping up for another stinging slap. Reconsidering, I retreat, tiptoeing off the precipice of a breakdown and making the healthier choice.

Jagged breaths work in and out of me as I search for my discarded phone. Holding it in my shaking hands, I stare at the contact on my screen: Dr. Daniels. It’s been two years since I’ve dialed this number. Two years of progress. Two years of healing. Two years free of narrow-minded clinical judgment. All gone down the drain so quickly.

With one last look at my red-rimmed eyes and swollen forehead, I summon the willpower and initiate the call.

“Anastasia, it’s been a while,” Dr. Daniels says hesitantly.

“Yeah, well, like you said, these things tend to be a vicious cycle.” Admitting this is fucking excruciating as the muttered words tear at the seams of my tight lips.

“Do we need to make an appointment? You know I’m always happy to fit you in,” she says in that reassuring voice I loathe.

“I—” Movement at the edge of my vision catches my attention, a ripple of chills left in the breeze of its wake. “Doctor—” My thoughts slow and stumble over one another as I catch a glimpse of it in the reflection, lingering in a corner behind me—dark and lithe, and gossamer. The phone clatters to the ground, as I turn to it, but by the time I’ve swiveled around, it’s gone. Wordlessly, I flounder trying to find my device without taking my eyes off my surroundings. Finally, it’s in my grasp and I stand, checking every corner for something or someone who might be lurking, but there’s nothing.

“Are you still there? Is everything okay?” Great, she’s really going to be worried now.

“I- I need to talk to you. I’m not feeling like myself.” I slowly spin in a circle, searching for shadows that don’t belong. “I need your help.”

“Are you safe, Anastasia?” Her voice heightens fractionally.

My throat works as I taste the different ways I can phrase this. The last thing I want is for her to raise a red alert on me.I’m doing so much better.

“Anastasia?” There’s muffled talking on the other end of the line. “You haven’t hurt…yourself, have you?”

Uncertainty holds my tongue for a little too long, terrified to lure it back out. “I’m safe.”

“And what about…have you hurt someone else?” There’s an edge to the question.

“No.”

“Were you thinking about it?” She finally gets to her point, the subject of many,manyof our sessions—the potential of my so-called obsession escalating to violence.

“I would never hurt Becca.” I clarify what’s important, maintaining the truth I’ve always insisted on.

“Where are you now?” The words clutter together with urgency.

Out of habit, I shift some of the jewelry around in my catch-all dish. In the glass, a vague, inky shape darkens the surface. I turn my attention to the ceiling, but there’s nothing there.The lack of sleep must be getting to me.That’s all this is.

“Hello? Anastasia?”

“Home. I’m at home.” Closing my eyes, I do my best to focus on our conversation.

“Are you going to remain there?”

My gaze flicks to my keys. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you. This was a waste of time; everything’s fine. I just had a bad night.”

“Anastasia, I’m here for you. Let me get you the help you need.”

“I don’t need help,” I growl out. “Thank you for answering but this was a mistake. Forget I called.”

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