Page 22 of Every Thought Taken

Now they invite new friends to gatherings. The few girls I’ve met in passing seem flighty but nice. The guys…

Nausea rolls in my stomach as I grind my molars. “None of them are good enough,” I mutter to myself.

Life has been shit. More than usual.

The day my sister started dating, I bore witness to Helena’s green monster. The glassiness in Helena’s eyes as he hooked his arm around Ales’s shoulders. Helena’s slumped frame as he whispered something in Ales’s ear and she laughed. With each act of affection my sister displayed with a guy, Helena’s cheeks flushed. Her frame stiffened. She dropped her gaze to her clamped hands.

Helena wanted what Ales had. The affection and attention from a guy. And it wasn’t long before she landed someone. A smug asshole with pretty hair and a letterman jacket.

I hate him.

“I will never be worthy.” Not compared to pricks like him.

Self-deprecation spreads through my veins like toxic poison. Infecting my cells and burrowing deeper in my bones. Years ago, I hated the vile sensation. The chill, the queasiness, the suffocation. It swallowed me whole with no promise of letting go. Now, I close my eyes and bask in the familiarity. Give in to the intimacy I share with the dark. Let it consume me until I am numb to the world.

The dark never fails. The dark never forgets. And it is in the dark that I feel most myself.

I strip my pants and boxers. Sit on the edge of my bed and open the top drawer of my nightstand. Take out the worn copy ofAmerican Psychoand thumb through the tattered, highlighted pages. Stop midway through and stare down at the dull metal rectangle nestled near the binding.

With a stuttered breath, I pluck the razor from the pages and toss the book aside. The blade lost its shine months ago when I stole it from the box in the garage. Dad wouldn’t notice one missing razor from a box of many. Not when he had no reason to count them.

I widen my legs and push my limp dick aside. Bring the edge of the blade to my skin beneath several lines scarring my flesh. Press the sharp metal down and hiss as it breaks the surface. And for a brief moment, I bask in the sensation, the pain, the euphoria. I revel in the fact that I feelsomethingother than numbness.

When the rush fades, I do it again. And again. And again.

Staring down at the inflamed, bloody marks, my heart beats viciously in my chest. My dick hardens for the first time in weeks. The sight, the sensation, and the act arouse me, but I refuse to touch or relieve myself. I don’t need to jerk off. I don’t need to come on my sheets or a dirty T-shirt. Not when I have this.

I wipe the blade’s edge off on the dark comforter rumpled at the foot of my bed. Tuck it back in the book and stow it in the drawer. Fall back on the bed and close my eyes. Lie naked from the waist down and savor the last of the adrenaline.

When the rush dissipates, the self-loathing seeps back in. Consumes another piece of my soul.

“Just end already,” I whisper. “Just make it stop.”

Why won’t it stop?

Loud pounding echoes down the hall from the front door as someone bangs on it and I bolt up. As I yank my boxers on, Ales yanks her bedroom door open. She thunders down the hall as I pick my pants up off the floor. I tug my pants up and wince as the denim seam chafes my thigh. But my pain goes out the window the second I hear sobs in the distance.

Helena.

I pad across the room, unlock my door, and fling it open just in time to see my sister and Helena pass. Mascara-stained tears bleed down her blotchy cheeks from puffy, veiny eyes. Her body shakes as Ales hugs her side and guides her into the bedroom next to mine.

The second the door shuts, I take a step back and close my own. Press the heel of my hand to my chest, close my eyes, and beg for her pain, her suffering. I will gladly take it to give her relief. To free her from her burdens.

I move to the wall separating our bedrooms, press an ear to the drywall and listen. Helena talks between sobs, but her words are muddled as they travel from her lips to my ear.

After minutes of unintelligible words, I step away from the wall and go back to my bed. Lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling. Zone out and beg the universe to give Helena peace. Happiness. Whether it is with me or not.

Her joy is what matters.Sheis all that matters.

CHAPTER12

HELENA

Mags hugs me tighter as Lessa rummages through the kitchen. She left the room with a promise to return with food that will cheer me up. Whatever that means.

I sniffle and wipe at my cheeks. Upset with myself and my obvious naivety. Angry at Scott Tomaski and his trickery. “Idiot,” I choke out. My sobs from an hour ago are gone. Now, I exist in the aftermath. Misery and humiliation. Doubt and confusion.

How did I not see this coming? How did I miss the signs?

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