Page 10 of Until the Ribbon Breaks

With my pencil in hand, I mindlessly start scribbling at the bottom of the page. Lines link with curves that blend into shapes, and soon, the image of an eyeball appears. A single teardrop slips from the inner corner as it peers up at me, but it’s a hollow connection. I look into the empty pupil, but I have it all wrong.

It’s me who’s empty.

Slipping the pencil back into the spiral, I close the notebook on my lap and slowly pull up my left sleeve. With my wrist upturned, I stare down at my failed attempt at freedom. I run my thumb along the dark pink line of scar tissue.

My brother was the one who found me that day. It was summertime and he was home from college. Tyler was supposed to be out with one of his old friends from high school while Mom was at work, but he came back early because he thought it would be nice to take me out to lunch and spend some time together before he flew back to North Carolina.

If he hadn’t come home, I would’ve been free.

I was unconscious when he discovered me on my bathroom floor. The doctor said I hit my radial artery. They gave me a blood transfusion and kept me in the ICU for two days before moving me to a floor room until my wound was stable.

I thought I’d be able to go home, but that didn’t happen. They put an EOD on me, an emergency order of detention, and I was forced into a private facility. It was horrible. I begged my parents to let me go home, but they refused. I could tell that my dad was conflicted, but my mother was adamant that I stay.

Things only got worse while I was there. It was a brutal downward spiral, and I just wanted to die. I wound up staying for almost three months before they released me.

When I got home, it didn’t really feel like home anymore.

Since the semester was already halfway through, my mom thought it would be best to continue the homeschool program I had been doing at the mental health facility.

My thumb continues to drag along the four-inch scar, and I wonder about what the kids at school would say if they ever found out. With the way I ran out of that record store, I’m positive Noah has come to the correct conclusion about how that scar got on my wrist, and I can only hope he keeps that knowledge to himself.

I’d rather be teased than pitied. I get enough of that from my family. It only reminds me that I’m messed up, that I can’t be trusted, that I’m incapable of knowing what’s best for myself.

If only they knew the truth.

But they don’t.

Because they can’t.

They don’t know what it feels like to be a prisoner to this suffering. Despite taking my meds every day, there’s still an incessant ache I can’t escape. I’ve tried and failed to get better, yet, here I remain—trapped.

Some days are better than others.

I have my ups and downs, but the ups are still downs, just not as far.

Tugging my sleeve, I cover my botched effort before wrapping my arms around my body as the chill kicks up a notch. Thank goodness the dank climate here lets me get away with wearing oversized sweaters and long-sleeved shirts almost all year.

Another gust of wind blows off the water, forcing me to find warmth in my car. After tossing my raincoat into the back, I start the car, but before I shift into drive, my phone chimes with an incoming text.

Noah: Is everything okay?

I want to ignore him, but then I fear that, if I don’t say anything, he might go fishing for answers elsewhere. Not that he has any other friends at school aside from me. As much as I want to hide and pretend this away, I go ahead and respond, doing my best to squash this.

Me: Everything’s fine. Sorry I overreacted. See you tomorrow.

HARLOW

“You still haven’t texted me the hotel information,” my mom nags as she stands in the doorway to my bedroom. “Can you just stop for a second and do that before you forget again?”

“Ugh, fine.” I drop my toiletry case into my bag and grab my phone off the bed so I can text her the information.

“And remind me again who you’re going with.”

“Mom,” I groan, drawing out her name, “I’ve told you like a million times already. Her name is Annie. She’s the newspaper editor.”

“What’s her cell number?”

I stop mid-zip of my bag and turn to face her. “No way, Mom.”

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