Page 122 of Distorted Obsession

Why did she die?

“Please, no. I can’t do this again,” I mumble—guilt clawing at my chest like a scarlet letter, invisibly branding me.

More questions bombard me.

Is she dead because of me?

Who could hate her enough to end her life?

“No. How can this be?” I whisper inaudibly.

“Yeah. They’ve had more than a few terrible interactions.”

Accusatory gazes flit across my field of view. No one speaks, but they don’t have to. It’s written on every face.Guilty!

“What if she killed her for revenge?”

“No… no… no… no… no,” I stammer on the verge of blacking out. Spots dance in my vision as I fight for air.

I can’t kill someone else—this can’t be because of me!

Candace is dead, and in my gut, I know it has something to do with me.

Replaying our fights, from the first day of school until Homecoming night, I see it all in high definition. Her warnings about the twins. Her vitriolic hate of me because of Fah. Each and every interaction flashes before me.

Unable to bear it any longer, I do what I do best—run.

I don’t look back.

I don’t stop when my name’s called.

I don’t even catch my breath until I’m locked in my room.

Scrambling to the drawer, I pull out the rectangular box I haven’t felt the need to use in weeks. The metal glints in the sunlight that beams through my window like a spotlight landing on an escaped prisoner, but I don’t care about being caught.

I roll the waistband of my pants down, exposing my hip. My hand moves without provocation, my fingers tracing along the abundance of silvery scars.

My phone rings, and I ignore it. The call barely ends when it rings again. But there’s no one who can stop this freight train barreling off the track.

Holding the razor, I lower it to the flesh of my hip.This time it’ll be a new line—a rebuke that marks my blackened soul.

Some memories fade, but I’ll never forget what each and every cut in my skin represents—penance and restitution.

The tip of the blade pricks my skin. A small trickle of blood appears, teasing me, almost begging for me to continue, when “Fallen Angel” by Three Days Grace fills the room.

My breath hitches. The haze slows, providing me a moment of clarity.

Colt and Coop.

Scrambling, I reach for my cell phone and hit answer.

“Hello,” I choke out.

Silence hangs in the air, but I don’t dare pull the phone from my ears, too scared I’ll miss the life raft I so desperately need.

My lips part, preparing to speak again when one of them says, “Cut it the fuck out.”

I barely register the shock on my face before the line goes dead.

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