Page 38 of Little Bird
And that right there swings me abruptly from heartbroken to angry.
Furious, in fact.
I’m so mad I could punch holes in every single wall in this house. And for a moment, that’s exactly what I want to do. Find a way to act out my aggression and heartbreak. Create a physical outlet for the emotions swirling through me at yet another human leaving me behind when I need...
When I need...
Something.
Christ, four years of therapy and I can’t even identify what I need or how to get it.
The problem is, I’ve walked into a situation therapy never addressed. Hell, I don’t even know how we would have. Gabe is pulling his best Jekyll and Hyde impersonation, flirting with me like nothing has changed, letting his walls down and allowing me to see someone I never knew, and then putting those walls back up so quickly it makes my head spin.
Then I’m waking up with Gunner behind me in bed, his cock hard enough to cut steel and grinding against my ass. And then he’s following me into the kitchen and kissing me like he’s been planning it for years.
I slam my hand down on the counter and realize that punching holes in walls isn’t going to be enough for me to combat the confusion. I need something better. Something more painful.
I turn the stove off so the chocolate won’t boil over, grab the cookies out of the oven and shove them onto the counter, and run for the stairs. I need the bathroom and my bag of goodies. I need a spot where Gunner and Gabe can’t find me, and no one is going to walk in on me without at least knocking first.
I need space where I’m the only one breathing.
I run into my room, grab what I need, and then slam into the bathroom, taking the time to at least close the door quietly and lock it. I move over and lock the other door—the one that leads to Gabe’s bedroom—and say a silent apology to him in case he wakes up in the middle of the night and has to pee.
He’ll have to go to another bathroom if he does. Because I’m using this one.
As far as Gunner goes...
Well, I’m guessing he’s locked himself in his own room just to get away from me. And that’s perfect, honestly.
I need to be alone to get through this.
I put the bag on the bathroom counter and unzip it slowly, savoring the tension. My heart is racing and my brain is already shutting down, too panicked to stay online, but I love the suspense of the moment. That hiccup in time when I know exactly what I’m going to do and could stop myself, but don’t. The breath when I decide to move forward. When I know relief is right around the corner.
When I spread the bag open, I see that everything is where it should be. Several razor blades are strapped into place, along with a sewing case complete with needle and fishing wire. A full pack of gauze and another of medical tape, just in case.
Things have gone sideways on me before, and toilet paper isn’t as good at stopping bleeding as you might think.
I bite my lip and slide my favorite blade out of its strap. This one isn’t the biggest I have, but it fits perfectly in my hand, and it’s certainly the sharpest. I know because I sharpen it again after every use. I want to make sure it’s always ready and waiting for me.
The friend who never lets me down. Never deserts me or chooses someone else over me, and certainly never tries to use me for its own purposes.
“Hello, old friend,” I whisper.
Then, without any further thought, I hold the blade to the pad at the base of my thumb, push down, and slice into the skin.
The sting is immediate, the feel of the blade cutting into the flesh so powerful that I can’t think of anything else, and suddenly my mind goes blank. The emotions disappear as if they’ve never existed and I can breathe again. I can think. I can feel without actually feeling. Because all I need to hold is the sting of the wound, the memory of the blade in my skin, and the sudden rush of blood across my hand. I let it bleed for several moments, watching it in fascination, and then I grab some cotton and push it against the wound.
This brings another round of pain, and I blow out in relief. I’ve been in therapy for so long I’m emotionally exhausted from all the work, but it’s never done much for me. Certainly hasn’t brought me any relief. But this, the slice of the blade, lets me focus. It gives me a pain I can understand because it’s right there in the physical realm. It’s something I can watch happen, something I can actually process. And at the end of it, it’s something I can treat.
Physical pain leaves you. Emotional pain just builds and builds until you want to kill yourself just to stop feeling it.
I’ve never gotten that far, of course. I have too much to live for. And the cutting gives me enough outlet to avoid anything more serious.
I eye the other blades, wondering if I’m okay now or if I need something more. But I feel calmer than I was. More settled, like I can finally see in front of me, and I think I’m okay. Just a little blood to drain the emotion, and I’m good. I pull a bandage out of the bag and go through the complicated steps of bandaging myself with only one hand, then drop onto the floor and focus on breathing. The cut still stings, and I probably should have chosen a place that Gabe and Gunner won’t see, but I was in a hurry.
Desperate.
I huff at that thought, wondering what Gabe would think of it, but then look up, shocked.
