Page 101 of Distorted Obsession

Wringing my wrist, I reply, “To be honest, it’s been shit.” I pause, remembering the nearly back-to-back blows I suffered at the hands of my bullies. The scene from my run where the video was aired for all to see comes to mind before the scene with pictures outside my dorm quickly replaces it.

Dr. Singh nods, but doesn’t speak, waiting to see if I’ll elaborate.

“I don’t know how or why I’m still here,” I begin. “When the audio of Farrah and me making our pact was played, I thought it would mean the end, but then those fucking photos were plastered everywhere.”

My teeth grind, and my nails claw at my skin. “Why can’t I find peace?” I blurt out, knowing the answer but asking anyway.

“You don’t deserve it,”Farrah’s voice hisses.

“Would you allow yourself to feel it?” Dr. Singh’s question is an open callout.

Shots fired.

A tear rolls down my cheek, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand before stating, “No. I don’t deserve it.”

Her perfectly sculpted brow arches in challenge. “Says who, Eva? Who says you don’t deserve to heal and find your peace?” And I must admit that I didn’t expect this level of fire from Dr. Singh.

Anger boils like molten lava, spreading faster than an infectious disease ignored by the government. “How can I find peace when my best friend is forever the same age and died in the same mental headspace that took her from me?” I snap, my spittle flying across my laptop screen.

How can she ask me that? Doesn’t she know why? The Eva Rose Pierce, who once was, died on that cold, wet, and snowy day. July 11, 2022, at 10:52 AM, Eva Rose Pierce was laid to rest with her best friend, Farrah Amira Jacobi.

“So you believe you must be a walking corpse in order to atone?”

“I don’t deserve to find peace. It’s what I oweher—it’s what I owethem,” I confess. Then lift my hands, palms out towards the computer screen. “I’m not the victim here. I’m the perpetrator, and m-m-my h-h-hands are st-st-stained with blood.” By the time I’m finished speaking, I’m gasping for air as I sob uncontrollably.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been crying, but Dr. Singh hasn’t said a word, allowing me the space to feel my never-ending swirl of emotions. Once I finally calm down enough, I peer down at my bloody forearm covered in crescent-shaped cuts. They aren’t deep enough to scar, so I’ll wait until after my session ends to clean them, because the last thing I need is for my therapist to realize I’ve harmed myself.

Inhaling, I collect myself, wiping the remnants of tears away from my swollen eyes. “I’m sure I look like the picture of mentalhealth right now,” I joke, hoping to cut the self-imposed tension in the air.

“What you are is someone who is in pain, who’s not ready to let themselves heal,” she retorts. “But the path towards healing isn’t linear or timed, so give yourself the space to figure it out.” Dr. Singh studies me momentarily before she speaks again, “How did you handle those situations?”

Grateful not to dig into my inability to permit myself to heal, I think back, remembering that I haven’t used my razor recently. In fact, I’ve had no urge to even pick up a blade, and I haven’t had any dreams about Farrah.

What’s been different?

It takes me about a millisecond to find the answer—the Jacobi twins.

Outside of being found in a compromising position two days ago, I’ve slept peacefully and have had fewer urges to purge my anguish with a slice to my flesh.

“I’ve recently enlisted the help of a couple of friends to help me reduce my stress through intense workouts, and it’s seemingly working well, at least thus far,” I state.

Dr. Singh smiles. “Oh, that’s lovely. High-intensity interval workouts are a great way to practice self-care. Keep it up.”

Biting the inside of my cheek, I fight to keep a straight face because the minute I say who thosefriendsare and what thoseworkoutsconsist of, I know she’ll be on the next flight with her team to Groveton, Texas.

“Only a few more weeks until homecoming, and I for one can’t wait,” Paisley exclaims. “The parties, the food, the parties, the games—did I mention the parties?”

Shaking my head, I stand, grabbing my tray and beelining for the garbage can.

Full is an understatement for what I’m feeling right now. I groan, tossing the remnants of my food into the trash can. I ate entirely too much, but who can say no to a great double bacon cheeseburger and seasoned curly fries? Oh, and a side of buffalo sauce to dip them in. The only thing missing was a vanilla milkshake.

The girls are all standing by the time I make it back to the table. “Are we heading back to the room?” I ask, grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder.

“We’re going to a study session,” Cammy and Ayana reply.

I swivel my attention towards Paisley, and she shakes her head. “I’m off to meet my girl. I’ll catch up with y’all tomorrow.”

“Looks like it’s just the two of us,” I say to Jade, linking my arm into hers. We joke about the way I landed on my ass at practice today, trying to get under one of the spikes.

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