by Rosie Somers
Tonight, just like the night I’d tried to kill myself, my world was coming down around me, or maybe it had been rubble all this time. Here I was, two months later, still alone, still rejected. Still worthless. I grasped the blade between my forefinger and still-tender thumb, reveling in the cold against my burned skin.
As I dragged the sharp side against my arm, I rested my head back against Corrine’s mattress and closed my eyes. That first sting was pure pleasure. The sensation was shallow and pinchy and oh so real. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as the blade sliced through the layers of skin on my arm.
After a few seconds, I pulled back and surveyed the damage. Thick, dark blood welled up and rippled away from the cut, leaving a trail in its wake. It was warm on my skin, the pleasure of it existing in sharp antithesis to the bite of the wound. Last time I’d cut, I’d wiped the blood away with each new mark, but this time, I left it to bleed.
I lined the razorblade up for cut number two to intersect my first. The metal hitched on the jagged skin as the two slits intersected, and my breath hitched at the resulting prickle of pain. I released the entire contents of my lungs in a long, heavy sigh and watched the blood mingle to form a wide, sanguine flow down my arm.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs just as I was pressing the tip into my skin to go for number three. Corrine must have decided to come home from Sarah’s instead of staying the night. I couldn’t let her find me like this. She wouldn’t understand—no one would understand that the only way to numb the pain inside was to cut myself open. I leapt up from the floor, ready to race across the room and lock the door, but it opened before I’d even taken a step.
“Hey, Cal, I can’t leave you alone like this. I’m going to …” Link trailed off as his eyes swept over me and settled on my arm. The razorblade slipped from my fingers, and in the silence, it landed on the carpet with a whisper that might as well have been a gunshot.
I crumbled to the floor, my soul shattering even before I hit the ground. He stood inside my door, one hand still holding the knob, his mouth half open. Suddenly, I was seeing myself from Link’s perspective. I wasn’t strong—wasn’t a badass. I wasn’t coping. I was cracked glass, transparent, etched in misery; I was a scared, damaged girl who didn’t know what to do with herself. My vision blurred with tears, and I curled into the fetal position. My blood was probably smearing onto the beige carpet, but I didn’t care. My body shook with sobs, but when I opened my mouth, no sound came out.
I was still as silent, as powerless as when my father was alive. But now, I was the one causing my pain.
I wasn’t sure when Link sat down next to me, or when he lifted gentle fingers to trail along my spine. At some point, I ran out of tears. He never said a word. Eventually, I dragged myself into his lap and collapsed, spent. There was nothing left of the Callie I used to be. I’d bled my emotions dry.
Chapter Twenty-One
A few minutes or maybe hours after my tears dried and the choking sobs racking my body ceased, I crawled out of Link’s arms and dragged myself toward my bed. I collapsed, bone tired. My arm was sticky with dried blood, and it stuck to the sheet. I bit my lip against the sting and pulled free, lifting my arm over my head to avoid making the same mistake again.
The bedframe creaked, and the mattress dipped with Link’s weight as he settled next to me. A minute later, my blanket was set over me, and Link tucked me in. Tucked us in. We were in a position strikingly similar to what we’d been in earlier, but the atmosphere was so different we might as well have been different people entirely. Maybe we were. Link slid his arm under my head, and I snuggled in against him. I hadn’t cuddled with anyone. Ever. But it wasn’t foreign; it was right. It was safe.
Link cleared his throat. “Cal?”
“Hmm?”
“Have you thought about talking to someone about your dad?” His voice was a soft caress against the top of my head, but his words were like lead.
“What would I say?” What could I say? I didn’t have it in me to malign my dead father’s character to a total stranger. The thought set my pulse racing and the vodka churning in my stomach.
“You could tell the truth. Get it out there, off your chest.”
Would getting it off my chest make it go away? I was barely holding everything in, was bursting at the proverbial seams. I was bleeding lies and years of abuse. My father was always going to haunt me. What good would talking about it do? No one would ever be able to put me back together whole—something vital was missing from my soul.
* * * * *
The sun was bright and offensive when I woke the next morning. My lips were parched and stung when I licked them. My eyes felt dry and shriveled, and the inside of my head thump-thumped in time to my heart. I would never drink again.
Link was peaceful beside me, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm of murmur-soft breaths. Part of me wanted to stay tucked into the crook of his arm forever. But my eyes were blurry and crusted with dried tears, a reminder of what I’d done—of who I was. In the harsh light of day, clarity came easy. I was broken; I needed help.
I did my best to sit up without wailing in pain. If I moved too quickly, my skull might’ve caved in. I managed a graceless climb over Link without waking him and settled on the floor with my back against the bed for a brief rest. I needed to pee, but the room was spinning enough to keep me on the floor. Finally, the room started to settle, and I made a slow climb to a mostly-standing position.
It took me a hundred years to make it to the bathroom and empty my bladder. Looking into the mirror while washing my hands was a mistake. My hair was flat on one side of my head and standing at odd angles on the other side. Yesterday’s makeup, so expertly applied, was smeared across my face, twin trails of mascara tears were dried onto my face like paint, and my lipstick formed a mocha aura around my lips. I looked like an evil clown.
Last night’s hickey was mottled purple and red and tinged with yellow around the edges. My eyes followed the path Jason’s lips had burned into me, and I pulled my tank down to expose my breast. Pale, indigo bruises were scattered over my flesh there, looking less defined, but no less ominous. I released my shirt and turned to check my shoulder. Same story. Okay, so I looked like an evil, clown who’d been sexually assaulted.
I turned the shower on and stripped while I waited for the water to heat. I got in and did my best to clean myself up, but I couldn’t wash away the evidence of what Jason had done.
When I got back to the room, covered neck to calf by Corrine's thick, purple robe, Link was sitting up in the bed, looking barely wrinkled and totally gorgeous. The room was suddenly minuscule, like he was filling it so completely there might not even be space for me there. I stayed put next to the open door, shifting my weight awkwardly from foot to foot. As if that simple motion might dispel some of my discomfort.
Link fiddled absently with my comforter, turning the dark purple material over and over between his fingers, while he eyed me—like he was sizing me up. “How are you feeling?” he finally asked.
“I’m okay.” We both knew it was a lie.
“What time does your mom get home from work?” he inclined his head toward the alarm clock on Corrine’s bedside table. It was already almost 8:00.
“Ten or fifteen minutes.”
He nodded and got up from the bed, straightening his plain white T-shirt and tugging it down over the hem of his jeans. He slid socked feet into the sneakers he’d left lined up under the bed and reached for the blue plaid button down hanging from Corrine’s headboard. It was weird watching him collect his belongings, like they belonged there, and he was leaving the space barren in their absence.
I was being dramatic. At least I was only being dramatic in my own head and not out loud. After all the crazy I’d shown Link, it was a miracle he was still there. I’d have run for the hills by now.
When he finished putting on his shirt, he closed the distance between us until he was barely a foot away. “I should go.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He lifted tender fingers to trace across my cheek, my lips, my chin. They stopped at that hickey, and he pulled his hand away in a white-knuckled fist. “Please tell me you’re going to report what he did to someone. Anyone.”
I shrugged, but didn’t answer.
“Call me if you need anything.”
My skin tingled in the wake of Link’s touch, and I almost begged him to touch me again. I nodded instead.
“I mean it, Callie.” His voice held a layer of steel now. “Call me.”
“Okay,” I promised. And I meant it.
Link tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear and leaned down. I closed my eyes and tilted my face up, anticipating a peck on the lips, but his kiss landed on my forehead, soft and tender and comforting. Then he was gone, his footsteps retreating quickly down the stairs. The front door opened, then closed as he left—the sound of it clicking shut echoed through the silent house.
* * * * *
I was in the kitchen and fully dressed—in a sweatshirt that fully covered my cuts and bruises—when my mother shuffled in ten minutes later. I pulled the pan of eggs I’d been scrambling off the stove and dumped half on one plate and half onto another. Neither of us spoke as my mother grabbed the freshly brewed pot of coffee from the maker and brought it and two cups to the little dinette in the corner. She sat in her usual chair, and I joined her moment later, placing a plate in front of her before sitting in Corrine’s usual spot. Across the table from Mom.
We ate in silence so quiet the scraping of our forks against the plates boomeranged back at me, scraping against my eardrums. I was full before my eggs were half gone, but I kept taking small bites and chasing them with small sips of coffee so I would have something to focus on.
Eventually, my mother looked up from her plate, set her fork down, wiped her mouth with her napkin, and said, “I protected you.”
“Huh?” She’d never protected me a day in my life. I crossed my arms on the table in front of me.
Her hands were under the table, but I could tell she was wringing them. It was her go-to nervous habit. “I couldn’t watch him hurt you anymore. And then, when I found you … that night …” Patchy color bloomed on her cheeks, and her face turned red in blotches. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. None of us had ever talked about that night. But now, apparently, we were going to.
“If I had stopped him, protected you sooner … maybe you wouldn’t have …” She waved a bony hand toward my unbound wrists, though my healing scars were hidden from view.
“Slit my wrists?” My voice was clear, my statement precise.
She nodded. “So, I did it.”
“Did what?”
There was no answer right away. She sighed, stood up from the table, and carried her empty dishes to the sink. Then, she headed for the front hallway. “Pushed him.”
She left me alone, her words hanging in the air, demanding my full attention. And I couldn’t process them.
Chapter Twenty-two
Corrine burst into bathroom, slamming the door open with so much force the wall behind the door shook from the impact. "Callie, there's dried blood on the carpet. What did you do?" I deserved her suspicion, but I also deserved to pee in peace.
"Corri, get out!" I pulled my sweatshirt down to cover my thighs, and hopefully everything else.
She froze, open-mouthed and flushed. "Oh, I thought …"
"I know what you thought. Don't worry; I'm not trying to kill myself. Just trying to take a leak." I stared down at the ribbing on the hem of my grey hoodie.
"Okay, well, I'll just …" She pointed over her shoulder and made a slow retreat, pulling the door closed as she went.
When I exited the bathroom, she was leaning on the wall outside the door. "What happened?"
"Nothing." I brushed by her and headed for the bedroom, collapsing facedown on my bed. The bed dipped with Corrine's weight.
"How was your party last night?"
I didn't answer her.
"Callie?"
"Just leave me alone, Cor. I'm trying to sleep." Never mind that it was the middle of the afternoon.
"Why don't you talk to me anymore?" Hurt suffused her every word.
I'd never kept anything from Corrine before. I'd never had to keep anything from her. Until Dad died, Corrine had been privy to my every secret. Guilt crept up on me and I turned over to face my sister.
I reached up and tucked a stray lock of golden-brown hair behind her ear. "Corri, I'm fine. Really."
"You're not fine, Cal. You're getting high, and hanging out with people like Mona Fleming. And I heard you skipped school the other day."
"Trust me, I learned my lesson. I won't be hanging out with Mona anymore." Going to that party with her had been the biggest mistake of my life.
Corrine stood and moved to the door. Before she exited she turned back and speared me with a look so bold and mature I suddenly felt like a small child. "I love you, Cal. I just want you to be okay."
* * * * *
No one spared me a glance when I stepped out of Link’s truck Monday morning, but I still looked around to be sure. I worried everyone could read the entire happenings of the weekend on my forehead, and I had a driving desire to escape prying eyes. The swarm of students arriving on campus was thick and buzzed with early morning energy. Energy I hadn’t felt in a long time. Would I ever fit in again?
As we reached the front entrance, a pair of large, black boots stepped into my line of sight. I knew who those boots belonged to even before my eyes made the trek up the legs of worn jeans, the front of a black T-shirt, to Jason’s face, twisted with aggression.
“I hope you didn’t do anything dumb, Callista. You’re keeping your mouth shut, right?”
I didn’t have a chance to answer before Link was between us, physically shoving Jason away from me. “Don’t come near her. Do you understand? If you so much as look in her direction, I’ll cut your eyes out. If you speak to her, it will be your tongue.”
I hadn’t known Link was capable of so much fury. For one brief second, I wasn’t sure if it was scary or reassuring, but when Jason’s eyes bugged and he stepped back with his palms out submissively, I settled on reassuring. He backed away, without taking his eyes off Link, and when he’d made it about twenty feet, he turned and jogged out of sight.
My heart was still racing when I ducked my head and let Link lead me toward Mrs. Fields’ classroom. And the closer we got, the tighter the knots in my stomach tied themselves, the heavier my legs became, the harder my heart pounded. Maybe I was having a heart attack. Or at least a panic attack.
Fresh air, open space, and quiet peace became my only motivators. I didn’t follow him into the classroom. Instead, I spun on my heels and headed the opposite way. I didn’t have a plan, didn’t have a destination in mind. I just needed to get out of there. The walls were too close, the air too warm. My heart too heavy. Link jogged up next to me before I’d made it ten feet, but he didn’t try to stop me. He fell into step beside me, as if he knew that even one word would shatter the tenuous hold I had on my emotions right then.
I crossed the campus and rounded the cafeteria toward the bathrooms, before I finally stopped. The area was deserted except for us.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m going to stop breathing,” I said with my back still to him. He didn’t say anything; I hadn’t expected him to. Link had this way of being stoically supportive, of knowing when to speak and when to listen. “Who am I, Link? Three months ago, I had near perfect attendance, was a star basketball player …”
“Were terrified of your father.” And that was the crux of it. Now that I didn’t spend every moment of my life terrified of messing up or making one wrong move—now that there was no pressure to be the perfect daughter—I didn’t know what to feel. I didn’t know who to be.
“I’m a … cutter.” I knew he’d seen the scars, had even caught me in the act, but I needed to say the words out loud to make them real.
“You cut.” His hand landed on my shoulder in the softest of touches, but the touch rocked me to my core. “It’s not who you are.”
“Isn’t it?” I turned to face him. His expression was pained, like it hurt him to have this conversation. “Then, who am I?” I asked again.
“You are Callista Tanner; you’re a survivor. He’s gone, Callie. You can’t keep letting him make you his victim. You’re stronger than that; I know you are.” He could have been talking about my father; he could have been talking about Jason. It didn’t matter.
Tears welled in my eyes, and when one rolled down my cheek, Link swiped it away with his thumb. He wrapped steady arms around me and pulled me into a tight hug. I relaxed against him. Being there, in that moment, in Link’s arms felt right. Like everything that had happened over the last two months had led to this moment by design.
“Ahem.” Someone mock-cleared her throat behind us. We turned together, staying inches apart, but Link dropped his arms to his sides. Mrs. Easton stood several feet away, hands on her hips and a stern expression on her face. “Shouldn’t you two be in class now?”
Had the late bell rung? I’d been too caught up in the moment to notice. And now, I was caught by the one teacher I promised wouldn’t catch me skipping again. She’d taken me at my word, and I let her down. If I was going down, I didn’t need to take Link with me. “It’s not his fault, Mrs. Easton; he was worried about me.”
Her expression softened to something warmer, but still unreadable. Suddenly, I was consumed with an almost overwhelming desire to spill my guts to her, to tell her every minute detail of my damaged life.
“Mrs. Easton, I’m ready to talk.” I was ready to talk about everything, my father’s abuse, the cutting, Jason’s assault. Everything except the one move my mother had ever made to protect me. That I would take to my grave.