Page 100 of Tear Me Apart
I don’t mean this metaphorically. I mean it quite literally.
I have. It is warm. Surprisingly silky, viscous, like a good lotion. Slippery, too, if there’s enough of it.
There was a time when all I wanted was the fleeting sense of pain that came from seeing my flesh part. The blood that came out was luscious and red, and as it dripped into the bath, the pain went away. My pain went away. My control returned. My soul was filled.
I know, it sounds quite wrong. No one in their right mind slices themselves open. Oh, but it feels so good. You don’t know how good until you try it.
Letting the blood of another person doesn’t give the same sensation. It feels and smells wrong, like danger.
* * *
My arm hurts.
The lights are so bright. I just want to crawl into a hole and die, but no one will let me. They keep up a constant patter of conversation, bland nothings meant to keep me awake and focused, while they clean and numb and stitch. It feels like hours, days, have passed before they deem me ready to talk to the resident shrink.
He looks kind. He shuts the door behind him and sits on a stool with wheeled casters for feet. He watches me carefully, then spins around in a circle.I am whimsical, the spin says.I am to be trusted.
I trust no one. If you’d experienced what I have, you wouldn’t, either.
I merely blink at him, his short hair too black, his cologne too strong, his smile too wide.
“Tough nut, eh. All righty then. Here’s the deal. Legally, since you tried to hurt yourself, we have to admit you to our psychiatric ward. Your mom tells me you’re supposed to be going to Middle Tennessee Mental Health tomorrow, but if you want, you can stay here. At least for the week. See if you think we will work for you.”
I shrug. I truly don’t care what happens to me now.
He touches my wrist carefully. “Why did you do this?”
I shrug again.
“You want me to think you don’t care, but I know you do. This was more than a cry for help. Trust me, I see it too much, young men and women who try to kill themselves, but they aren’t entirely serious. They think they are, but something holds them back. They don’t swallow enough pills, they don’t cut deep enough. Thankfully, they survive, and we treat them, and they find happiness and are so grateful that they failed. You, you were serious. If your sister hadn’t found you, you would be gone. I just wonder why? Why did you want to die so badly?”
I look at the floor. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Give me a break. You’ve seen the news. My chart. You know why.”
He sits back and watches me. Finally, he speaks again, and his voice has changed.
“Listen, Liesel. You’ve had a rough go of it. I won’t even begin to say otherwise. But trust me, you have so much to live for. You’re only sixteen. There is a life out there with your name on it, waiting to be claimed. You can be who you want. Live where you want. You don’t have to stay here and be the girl they talk about behind their hands. Another year and you can leave. Change your name. Go to Europe, eat chocolate every day, live on a mountaintop. Sail around the world. A year from now, you will have absolutely no limits on your life. You do not have to let this experience define you.”
“I don’t think I have a choice. A man is dead. A horrible, terrible, awful man.” I can’t help myself, I begin to cry. I’ve tried to stay strong, but I am so fucked.
“I can give you a choice. Will you give me a year?”
He speaks such honeyed words.
“I don’t even know you.”
He sticks out his hand, which I don’t take. “Dr. John Freeman. I would be your therapist. I will personally work with you, design a program to get you back on your feet. And I swear to you, Liesel, I can get you through this. But you’re going to have to help, too.”
“Whatever.”
“No, not whatever. You were only sentenced to a year of psychiatric inpatient treatment because of your actions. A year may seem like a lifetime when you’re sixteen, but trust me, it’s not. But here you are instead, because last night, you gave up. Will you tell me why?”
Why? For a thousand reasons, and none. I shake my head. The pain is still too intense. Words won’t do it justice.
He touches my wrist again. “You have to promise me you aren’t going to try this again.”
