Page 27 of Warmer, Colder

During the day I can partially distract myself, once darkness falls and the world slows, I’m left alone with my thoughts. With shadows moving unnaturally and the constant feeling of eyes on me, I turn into a bunny in a trap. With my sprinting heart nearly exploding out of my chest and my tense muscles frozen, I wait for something to come devour me. Whenever I let my guard down, the things that go bump in the night come by and take little bites out of me—a pile of dirt, scratching on my door, and things falling, moving, and breaking, without explanation.

Even in the moments where it’s calm and quiet, I can’t escape the stream of comments reminding me how worthless I am, or the texts demanding I come over,now—some draw blood, others don’t, but they always leave my sanity a little less intact.

Without a reprieve, it’s only a matter of time before it shatters for good.

Everything is a threat. The soft blowing of my curtains makes me flinch. Is one of them going to reach through and bend my body to their will or is the dead woman buried in my backyard going to come drag me back to the dirt with her? Entombing us together, finally claiming me asherslike she promised.

Fear has spread from my mind and nestled its way under my skin. It’s parasitic, sucking me dry of any sense of control. Ever since the night of my birthday party, my body has remained on high alert. The weary tissue and muscle doing its best to recover before the next time it’s violated.

I wonder at what point they will simply split me open and leave me in a heap to bleed out all alone? Used and discarded. “Just like you allowed her to be,” my guilty conscience reminds me. And yet, I do nothing. The way Nate and his friends hold my leash is one that comes with years of mastery; their ability to force me to heel has been honed from years of training. And like any abused animal, I don’t run for fear that things will only get worse when they catch me.

So, I cower and wait, finding a little comfort however I can.

From beneath my covers, I mumble the words fromOnce Upon a December—the way I have in times of stress since I was eleven—on an endless loop. I used to be embarrassed by the childish habit, but now I cling to it like a lifeline. The rope is tattered, tearing further in the ripping current by the minute, but it’s all I have,a fraying thread of hope that I’ll make it back to safety one day.

But I’ve been hard-pressed to find any kind of hope mentally, physically, or otherwise.

When I look in the mirror, I’m not myself, I’m a collection of body parts with their names written all over them. My wrists are encircled withRichard. He loves to hold them behind myback while he fucks me. My lower back is branded withRob. My stomach belongs to Nate; the sticky mess he leaves behind a film that clings to me. No matter how many showers I take, it’ll never be enough.

I feel another episode coming on as my lungs struggle to shift up and down in any semblance of a healthy pattern. The air’s run out; there’s nowhere I can turn to catch my breath. The poison’s spread. My safe spaces are compromised. It’s seeped into my clothes, my lungs, and my mind.

The memories.

The harassment.

The paranoia.

Too much, too much, too much. It’s all too much.

Numbly, I pick at one of the few fingers still perfected with powder-blue gel, watching as polish tears away from the nail. The uncomfortable tugging reminds me that I’m here. That it’s right now. That I’m notthere. That it’s notthen.

I’m sitting on my bed, bathed in the glow of the fairy lights strewn throughout my room—around my mirror, along the curtains, the new ones above my bed; anything to chase away the darkness that creeps closer and closer. I’m being boxed in by repressed memories and the unrelenting voices in my head. Things only get worse when the lights go out—fingers prying, teeth nipping, hands gripping—so I don’t let them.

Fear and insecurity didn’t always rule my life. It’s mostly been peace and contentment. But the last few months make me question whether that was even the same lifetime.

The truth is, I don’t know that girl who used to let things roll off her back. The one who smiled through the bad days and always got straight A’s. The perfect daughter. The reliable friend. The good girl. Pretty and soft and sweet.

My life had been majorly uneventful except for one other brief period. But I’d tucked away that part of my past in a little box atthe top of my closet, where it belongs; I’ve gone to great lengths to keep everything neat and tidy just like everyone expects. I’ve always been described as the calm, put-together twin. Now, I’m unraveling. There’s part of me that’s begging for help, but the problem is that when you’ve spent your whole life making sure everything is perfect, you don’t know what to do when it isn’t. Sometimes the confession is at the tip of my tongue, but even if I wanted to tell them, how do I tell the people that I love most—the ones who picture me as their sweet little girl—that I’ve allowed myself to be treated like this—how could I admit my greatest shame? Because then I’d have to own my biggest failure, and that’s just not something I’m capable of.

Instead, I suffer in silence, doing what I must to keep up the charade of stability for my family. I must be doing a good job because nobody asks me what’s wrong; my dad doesn’t sit me down for one of his talks, my mom doesn’t find extra reasons to knock on my door, and Aiden’s hardly around these days.

I’ve skipped my classes every day this week. All I can manage is hauling myself out of bed to go sit in my car for hours at a time or sleep on a blanket in the park in one of the other residential neighborhoods nearby—can’t risk my parents seeing me. After a long day of hiding the rapid deterioration of the life I’ve fought so hard for, I come back home and continue to rot.

But today, I chose something different.Something for me.

Pulling up to the shop, I hesitate. I’ve never gotten a tattoo alone. Rubbing a hand over the vine that winds around my thigh to my ankle, I stall for a few minutes, searching for inspirational photos and hyping myself up.If Aiden can do this like it’s nothing, so can I.

And apparently, fate agrees, because there’s nobody in the shop and they’re itching for a walk-in.

“Can I have your ID?” I hand it over and the brunette woman with olive skin covered in traditional tattoos passes mea clipboard with an intake form. “Do you know what you’re looking to get?”

“Yes,” I answer quickly.

“Can you show me an example so I can figure out which artist will be the best match for the style?”

I show her the images I hastily looked up. When I turn the screen toward her, she looks at the art, then at me, her look meaningful and comforting. Standing a little straighter, I’m emboldened in my decision. “I want it on my lower stomach. I want…I want it to be impossible to ignore if I’m naked.

She nods in understanding. “Give me just a few minutes to chat with the artists who are in today, then we’ll get you all set. Do you want some water while you wait?”

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