Page 2 of Whispered Desire

It's a modern fairytale in the making, and my hand stills as a familiar wave of sadness seeps around the excitement for my trip.

For all my foolish hopes growing up. For all the escapes romantic stories provided. I never imagined myself as the kind of girl who got ahappily ever after.

My life perpetually exists in thebefore.

Dramatic childhood. Tragic loneliness. The necessary backstorybeforethe heroine meets her prince and she blooms from a tough little seed into a beautiful rose—into a woman whoseafteris full of love and joy.

Humming absentmindedly, I lift my shirt as if in a trance, musical notes spinning a gossamer web of whimsical optimism and somber reality. Romantic fiction contrasting with my life.

The sharp tip of the scissors gently presses into my stomach, and I sigh at the sight of cool metal creating a dip in my belly. With a little more pressure, they’ll puncture the skin.

If I go far enough, it’ll probably pierce a vital organ.

I could bleed out.

Too slow and too painful.

Shaking off the moment of morbid curiosity, I drop the scissors on my nightstand after snipping off a corner of the packaging.

It’ll be my first time out of the country tomorrow, and despite its work purpose, I’m excited for the short reprieve from home.

Like Sabrina, I yearn for a change in circumstances.

Unlike her, I doubt I'll receive one.

A perfunctory knock on the bedroom door startles me from my thoughts before my roommate enters without waiting for a response. Her two rambunctious dogs race inside and bump excitedly into my bed, causing the stack of folded clothes in my suitcase to topple, and I bite my tongue from lashing out.

It’s not their fault their owner keeps them cooped up inside the apartment rather than letting them expend their energy at the complex’s dog park. That she doesn’t curb their wild behavior. That their high energy sends my pulse racing, desperate to find calm again.

“Where's your charging cord?” Bailey rummages through the odds and ends scattered on the shelving along the wall without so much as a ‘hello’ or ‘sorry for barging in.’

“Why? What happened to yours?” I ask as I right the fallen tower of clothing and connect the thin, restraining bands across the stack to prevent it from tumbling again.

“The stupid thing stopped working. Found it!” She pulls a neatly wrapped cord from a box half-hidden underneath a pile of papers. “It's not like you need this anyway. The box comes with two.”

My tongue aches from the increased pressure of my teeth to avoid starting an argument.

Like I always do these days.

Bailey and I used to be good friends. We met freshman year of college and stuck together through tough exams and bitter breakups—hers, not mine. That's why we chose to live as roommates after graduation.

But that was five years ago, and a lot has changed. Namely, she quit her job two years ago, making me the sole provider in our apartment. The only one standing between us and homelessness or starvation.

The plastic package finally pops open but slices the side of my finger with burning precision. I hiss in pain as blood wells from the one inch cut, immediately grabbing a tissue and pressing it to the wound.

Bailey doesn't bother to check on me. Or thank me for letting her borrow the cord. She saunters out of the room with Roscoe and Palmer trailing behind, leaving my door open to let in her cat next.

“Hey, Pretty Kitty,” I murmur, sinking onto the edge of the bed. The black cat meows in greeting.

Living this way with Bailey—a ghost until she needs something from me, burdened with keeping us afloat—has made me into a shell of the person I used to be.

Not that I've ever truly been free of being the responsible one. The defense between a world of trouble and those I care about. Before it was my family, and now it's Bailey.

Sometimes I wonder what she'd do without me. What everyone would do if I were gone.

But there lies the rub. Why I have these urges to put an end to my misery and why I never will.

I hate pain.

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