Page 11 of Relentless

Opening the cupboard before me, my eyes linger on two things.

A bottle of pills.

A razor.

One good. One bad. Only right now, I’ve no idea which is which.

One banishes the itch for a few invigorating minutes, the other dulls everything for a long ass time.

I can’t remember the last time I took them. They’re probably out of date. Since my last relapse, I’ve done everything I can to stay on the right side of the line.

My therapy comes in the form of exercise, sex and routine. The former of those is more reliable with the lives we live. But fuck, I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

The blades hiding within that razor, though. They hold a promise that makes my mouth water and my grip on the sink tightens until my nails are trying to carve into the porcelain.

My heart beats faster for it. For the relief, the moment of pure freedom that will come from it.

But then I think of her and hang my head.

Don’t do this, Julian.

She needs you.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I reach into the cupboard, ignoring the most tempting item in favor of my toothbrush.

The ants are still there. The need for relief is just as strong, but I’ve fought it before. Many, many times before. And I can do it again.

For her.

“You’ve lost your fucking mind to a girl,” I mutter to myself as I stalk through my bedroom to find a clean pair of sweats once I’ve dragged myself away from temptation.

You should have seen it fucking coming.

You should have been stronger.

Shaking my head, I banish my stupid thoughts and drag my pants up my still-damp legs.

With water running down my back from my hair, I wrench my bedroom door open, my eyes immediately darting to Reid’s.

It’s shut. Just like I knew it would be.

She kicked you out because she doesn’t want you.

She doesn’t need you, Julian.

Clenching my fists, I turn away and head for the stairs.

I’ve no idea what time it is, but the scent of grilled cheese floods my nose and my stomach growls obnoxiously. And it only gets louder as I get closer to the kitchen.

Despite being focused on what he’s doing and having his back turned, he still knows the second I walk into the room.

Fucking know-it-all.

He glances over his shoulder and stares me dead in the eyes.

I’d be naïve to think he couldn’t see me struggling up there. Honestly, I’m surprised he left me alone. There have been times in the past when that hasn’t happened for fear of what I might do once I was by myself.

Maybe he could tell I wasn’t that far gone, that I’d be able to drag myself out of it. Deal with the itch still burning my skin and the need for relief.

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