Page 13 of The Wrong Heart

But I do force a smile as I tuck the paper bag underneath my arm, and it’s wide and bright, eerily authentic. “Goodbye.”

I tell him goodbye, not goodnight, because when I arrive home ten minutes later, I wander aimlessly into the kitchen to discard the butter and my purse, then pluck a paring knife out of the silverware drawer.

Swallowing, I carry the knife into the living room and collapse to the floor, my back pressed up against the front of the couch with my legs sprawled out in front of me, my heart thumping. I decide to remove my hoodie because I don’t want to get blood on it. It was Charlie’s favorite, and I can’t bear the thought of being responsible for anymore stains.

The knife feels weightless in my fist, and I’m grateful that I sharpened it not too long ago. The blade is smooth and cunning. It shouldn’t hurt too much.

Not that I’d really notice.

I inhale an abrupt breath, rolling up the thin fabric of my long-sleeved blouse until the underside of my wrist comes into view. Blue veins stare back at me, swimming with winter and twilight, so striking against my milky skin.

A hollow calm sweeps through me—a foggy disconnect. It’s almost as if I’m out of my own body, observing from afar as the knife lifts, and the pointy tip digs into the soft flesh. It doesn’t take much pressure for it to pierce through, to puncture my skin, and I watch, almost catatonic, as the blood pools to the surface. I dig a little deeper, dragging the serrated edge downward and releasing a sharp hiss when the pain hits.

The sight of the blood has my stomach twisting into knots as a wave of dizziness claims me. My eyes flutter, and I start to sway.

I’ve always had a weak stomach.

I just never knew I had a weak heart.

As the blood begins to spurt, a notification pings from my cell phone beside me. I squeeze my eyes shut, hardly hearing it at first.

Leave me alone, I’m busy.

I’m too preoccupied with dying.

But something niggles at me, pokes and prods. It buzzes in my ear until reality comes crashing down around me, detonating at my feet and stealing my breath, ripping a battle cry straight from my womb. There are explosions behind my eyes and ashes in my throat.

On instinct, I reach behind me for the blanket sprawled over the armrest of the couch and wrap it tightly around my pulse point, trying to halt the blood.

What am I doing?

My God, what am I doing?

Panic sinks its teeth into me, and my breaths come in quick bursts of chaos as I near a hyperventilative state. I sift through the pocket of Charlie’s hoodie and locate my phone, consumed by violent tremors, my blood-tinged fingers swiping to unlock the screen so I can dial 9-1-1.

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready yet.

But I pause when the notification catches my eye. The notification that interrupted my suicide attempt.

I pause because it’s an e-mail.

It’s an e-mail from…him.

I quickly open it, trying to make out the words through a wall of tears.

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