Page 20 of Until the Ribbon Breaks

I open my mouth, but all I can think about is my dad.

“Is everything okay?”

Is she seriously pretending that she didn’t just kiss a man who isn’t her husband?

My hands have a death-grip around my phone, and the reality of what just happened has me choked up. I watch her neck flex as she takes a hard swallow, and wish I could turn and run so I didn’t have to look at her any longer.

“Tyler texted me and wanted some things from the store,” I tell her, my voice also trembling. “I came by to grab some money.”

“Oh, well that’s nice of you to go to the store, but I can do it if you need me to.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll go.”

She’s already digging in her purse when she walks over to me. “Here,” she says, handing me several twenties. “Is that enough, dear?”

I shove the money into my pocket, and without another word, I bolt. My hasty departure should be enough to clue her in that I saw and that I know.

HARLOW

Anger festers but shock prevails. I literally can’t believe that my mother kissed another man. How could she do this to my dad? To our family? I don’t want my parents divorcing, I don’t want any of this.

I put the last of the groceries away, thankful that, in less than twenty-four hours, my brother will be here. I’ve already called my dad, but he didn’t answer. Since it’s seven in the morning in Singapore, he’s probably busy getting ready for work. I sent him a text, asking him to call me when he had some time. I need to talk to him, to let him know what Mom is doing.

After I finish in the kitchen, I head up to my bedroom and pull out my notebook from under my mattress. Tingles begin radiating through my left hand as they often do—permanent nerve damage from cutting too deep. I shake them out as best I can before I open to the page I’d started yesterday as I tried to work through my current low. But all the thoughts are trivial in comparison to how I actually feel.

Worthless, damaged, lonely, loser, outcast, hopeless ...

The list goes on and on until I can barely see the white paper beneath all the black ink that’s scribbled across it.

I flip to the next clean page and sketch out a broken heart with sand pouring out of it.

It’s my heart.

Closing my eyes, I think back to the day I got brave with the blade. A part of me wondered what I would see when I dug it into my vein: blood or sand.

It should’ve been sand.

As minutes collect and form hours, my shock begins to evaporate, allowing the anger to rise to the surface. My hand aches, and when I push up my sleeve, I take the pen and trace it along my scar. The black ballpoint rolls over the pink line, and in an indefinable way, it soothes. I drag it back and forth, back and forth, inking my wrist until my eyes fall shut and the pen slips through my finger. Peacefulness washes over me, and I keep my eyes closed for fear that it will vanish if I open them.

So, I don’t.

Sitting in the center of my bed, I relish in the darkness and absorb the quietness. My muscles slacken, and I send up a silent prayer for me to live in this forever.

“Harlow.”

Another forsaken prayer.

“Harlow,” my mom calls out again. “Can you come downstairs, please?”

My eyes open, dumping me back into the harsh hands of reality. The sound of her voice punctures straight through me like a rusty nail.

I drag myself off the bed and down the stairs where my mom is sitting in the living room.

“Why don’t you sit down?”

“I’d rather stand,” I respond defensively.

She isn’t quick to speak as she fidgets in her spot on the couch. When she finally opens her mouth, she hesitates before noting, “You seem upset.”

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