"Mum, hurting yourself won't achieve anything," I speak from the script I've run a million times before, only this time my voice shakes, because I'm a little drunk myself.
The high from earlier has well and truly worn off.
"My heart … it hurts," she speaks, and it's somewhere between a cry and torture. It appeals to my nerves and my heart, and I take a step forward to wrap her in my arms … only she drags the knife a little, slightly less than a centimetre, and more hot, red blood oozes from the wound and down her stomach.
"No, no, no, stop, please," I beg, and tears well over my eyes, and I don't know if it's the booze or that it's just as painfully real as it always is.
Because if those you care about don’t love you enough to stick around, then what’s the point in even existing?
This time she lunges the hand that was clutching the bench to the hilt of the knife, and I scream, "No!"
"It doesn't hurt, Lee Lee," she sings, the glaze coming over her eyes even as she hiccoughs sobs out of her mouth. She drags the blade a little, twists it deeper, and my gut clenches. It’s scarier than the scariest horror movie, uglier than the most hardened criminal. Because this is my mother. The one and only living relative I’ve got. "It’s … it’s release. It brings me closer to him."
"You're crying, Mum. It does hurt." I step closer, my hands still out in that I mean no harm gesture.
"It doesn't," she says, and presses down on the blade, another drop of blood leaking out.
"Stop," I beg. She's so tiny. In that moment, even though I know it sounds ridiculous, I feel as if she doesn't have much bone or flesh inside her. She can't keep doing this. Because soon there will be nothing left.
Just as se drags the blade down, I pull it away from her tiny body before it can cause too much damage. But once again, I’m too late. Her stomach blossoms with a fresh rose, and my stomach lurches as I see what she’s done.
“Mum …” Tears well in my eyes as we wrestle with the blade, till I finally gain control and wrench it from her grasp.
It’s temporary relief. A Band-Aid.
Because a second later she’s rifling through the cutlery drawer, emerging with a steak knife. “You can’t stop me, Lee Lee. Don’t stop me from feeling good.”
"It doesn't feel—"
"Yes it does."
"No, it doesn—"
"Yes. It. Does." She spits the last word, and I don't wipe the droplet under my eye, even though I want to. Because right now, there's only one thing between my mother and cutting herself, one thing between my mother and a trip to the hospital, to the psych ward. One thing between her and death.
Me.
"Mum, you need to take a deep breath." I keep my voice level, calm, and take a step closer, the big blade still in my hand.
"It makes the hurt stop, Lee Lee. It just feels good." The fire is still burning dangerously in her eyes. "You should try it. I promise, it's ... it stings a little, but then it gets better. It's ... it's release."
And that’s the thing. She’s so convinced that this brings her pleasure, that the pain somehow brings her closer to Dad, that she wants this sting more than anything.
And why wouldn't she? For the past eighteen months, pain is what our family has survived on. We've gorged on it like hungry beasts in the wild, feasting on the hurt as it runs through our veins. I don't like it, and I don't seek it—but in this moment, I take it, because I don't have a choice.
I've already lost my father.
I won't lose my mother, too.
I lunge forward, dropping the blade and grabbing the knife in her hands. The serrated edge grates into my palm, and a sting flames its way through my body. It’s a fiery kind of hurt, the kind that’s laced with a pang of family and regret. Blood is everywhere, coating my palms, my nails. My palms slip as they try to gain purchase.
Mum’s determination is fierce, and she hisses like a feral cat as I use my second hand to try and pull her wrist away. She twists, and I wrap my spare hand around the first hand’s wrist instead, pulling toward me with everything I have, my body weight fighting hers.
She drops the handle.
The blade races up my palm and cuts through my wrist.
“Shit,” I breathe.
It swells in a jagged line across my creamy white skin. It meets the damage to my hand, blood on blood, a mass of hot, needy pain that swells along the surface. It's this pain I need to bring the tears to my eyes, the sight of my angry red blood against my pale skin to make me cry.
I drop the knife and it clatters to the floor. I shake, tears falling from my eyes as I sob uncontrollably. I press my wrist to my stomach, and feel my shirt matt against my skin and the blood I spilled there.
"My baby." Mum's breathless as she wraps her arm around my shoulders, guiding me to a chair she pulls out from the kitchen table. I flop down into it and she rubs my back, mumbling words of apology, words of contrition.
When her whispers turn to silence, I suck in a deep breath and turn my gaze to her pale face. "It hurts."
"I'm so sorry, baby." Mum's voice shakes. "I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t mean to hurt you …” And then, on a whisper, “again."
I hate this. I hate this so much, and I hate that I'm so afraid to stop trying to stop her. I can’t just let her keep on hurting.
There was a girl at my old school, Lisa. Once a month she'd try to commit suicide by slitting her wrists, and every time her mother would find her just as she'd made the second cut, swooping in and bandaging the wounds, then taking her to hospital to save the day.
One afternoon, Lisa's mum was stuck in traffic.
Lisa didn't come to school anymore.
I don't know if my mother would follow through with her cutting if I wasn't there to stop it or not, but I'm not game to find out. It's why she has to stop drinking though, before I leave. Because if she doesn't, I'm going to have to take her to the hospital. And knowing how she hates those sterile environments, that disinfectant smell and the stifled routine that prevails there, I don't know if she'll survive.
Later that night, or is it early that morning, I trudge up the stairs to my room, Mum following close behind.
"G'night, baby girl," she says as she continues toward her own bed.
I strip off my clothes and toss them in the hamper. I know I should start soaking my shirt now, but I'm tired, and even though my hangover feels as if it has melted away, the headache remains, pounding in the back of my brain.
"It's black anyway," I mumble to myself. It should be easy to wash out.
If only the new scratches on my wrist and the longer, harsher one on my stomach could be erased with a little Sunlight soap too. One is from eighteen months ago. The other, only eighteen minutes.
Both remind me of my mother, and in turn of myself.
We’re a lot alike. My eyes are twins of hers, our hair colour so damn similar. Sometimes I wish it wasn’t. Sometimes I wish that physical reminder wasn’t there.
Because the memory of our past confronts me every time I look in the mirror.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The nightmares are always worse after an incident.
Blood begets blood.
And then some.
I'm lying on the couch, clutching my stomach, and Mum smiles and makes some noises about going upstairs.
"I wonder why he's home so early," she muses as she places her hand on the railing to assist her passage.
"Don't know." I shrug, although my heart sinks to my stomach. What if he's having an affair?
I rack my brain, thinking of my parents and their relationship. Lately, there've been some fights late at night. They think I don't hear, but I do. Their voices penetrate through my bedroom wall, bearing stress and frustration and sadness, so much sadness.
Is that truly it, though? Is that temporary glitch, a few months of hardship, enough for him to want to throw away a marriage? My mother?
Me?
Anger boils my blood and I sit up straight. He can't do th
is to us. No. Not my dad.
I stand to follow Mum when I hear it.
She screams.
And I go bolting up the stairs to be with her, to support her, to hurl abuse at my cheating arse of a father who's just done the unthinkable and slept with someone else. In our house!
Mum's crouched in a ball at the end of the landing, sobbing these great big silent cries, clutching her knees to her chest. Her face is a contortion of the worst kind of pain, horror and nightmares etched all across it.
I race to her side and bend down, throwing my arms around her.
"Baby! No! You have to g ... you have to go!" Her voice is urgent. It chills me to the bone.
"Why? I—"
That's when I look into the bedroom.
And I see.
Violets on the dresser. A floral tribute to himself.
Then red. Red, everywhere. All over the stark white sheets of the bed. All over the pillow. The quilt. Some spattered on the floor. It's a Jackson Pollock tribute painted by my dad.
And that artwork changed my mum forever.
***
It’s midday by the time I’ve walked to the bar on Saturday to collect my car. I was hoping the fresh air would make me feel better, but my eyelids are still heavy, my head clouded with this haze of grief and fog and confusion. This is what a hangover feels like. The emotional kind, that is.
The lot is full with Saturday morning dance class attendees, and Mrs Jones gives me a wave as she heads into the hall, plum lipstick stretching with her lips into a grin. I return it, pulling the sleeve of my long-sleeved shirt all the way to my hand. The cut on my wrist is only small, but my brain doesn’t see it like that. My mind sees it flashing in neon.
“Left the car overnight,” she says cheerily, and I nod.
“I felt like a bit of a walk after practice yesterday,” I lie, and hope that it’s enough to hold off the Small Town Rumour Mill for a few hours.
Someone has parked a little too close to the back of my car for my liking, and I’m not sure I can manoeuvre out of the tight space without hitting their shiny, way-too-expensive-for-me-to-repair BMW.
“Crap,” I mutter. A breeze blows my shirt toward the lake, and it’s as if it’s calling me. It always calls to me.
I walk toward the lake, almost in a trance. It’s peaceful, small undulations marring an otherwise smooth surface. The vast expanse of water stretches far left, then twists to meet the ocean to my right. Salt infiltrates my nostrils, and my arms wrap around my stomach as the breeze gusts once more.
“Get outta here.”
The voice is loud, yelling, and I spin around to see Jase pointing toward the street. Another man stands in front of him, and from the way he steps forward so they’re chest to chest, menace radiating, I can tell that he has no intention of going anywhere at all.
“Not until I get what’s mine.” He gives a firm shove at Jase’s chest, and a sick feeling flutters over my stomach.
Jase grips the man’s wrist and removes the offensive limb from his body. I can’t make out the words, but when he speaks his voice is low, controlled, and loaded with threat.
I shiver, and pull my arms tighter to my sides. This isn’t a side of Jase I want to see. It’s not a side I need in my life.
I switch my gaze back to the lot, and the offending vehicle is nudging its way out of the spot, leaving mine free for the taking. “Timing,” I mutter, and make my way to my car.
My keys are in the lock when a hand lands on my shoulder. I flinch.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I turn to meet Jase. His hair is mussed, and his skin looks sallow, as if he hasn’t had quite enough sleep. Worry lines his forehead, and I’m torn between wanting to ask him what’s wrong and running the hell away from this guy who I just saw involved in some shady looking dealings.
“S’fine.” I shrug. “I was just … getting my car.” I state the obvious.
“What are you up to today?” He steps around me and leans against the door, his body hulking over my tinny piece-of-crap vehicle.
I lick my lips, stalling for time. Why is he talking to me? Okay, so yes, we kind of did have an amazing kiss last night, but everything that happened after with Mum has kind of stripped it from my mind. Not only that, but I’m still hurting after everything that happened with Duke and Kat. I don’t know that I’m ready for a date, and—
Relax, Lia. He just asked what you were doing. It wasn’t a marriage proposal.
I suck in a deep breath. “Just studying.”
“You okay?” He cocks his head to one side. “You seem … tense.”
“I’m fine.” I say the words, but even I don’t believe me. I try and force my shoulders to relax and creep down from around my ears where it feels like they’ve been standing to attention.
He pushes off the car and raises one hand in the air as if he’s holding a ticket. “I have an idea.” He take three long strides toward the bar then pauses, spinning back around to face me. “Come on.”
And I don’t know if it’s because I’m so confused and just kind of overwhelmed by life, or if it’s because he didn’t really give me a chance to say no, but my legs start moving, and soon I’ve caught up as we walk to the back of the bar together.
There sits a motorbike. It’s one of those kind of retro looking ones, with pronounced circular side mirrors and headlight. It gleams in the sun, and I hold up a hand to shield my eyes.
“Two seconds.” Jase jogs around to the side of the bar, then returns a few minutes later holding—
Oh, no.
Oh no, no, no, no.
“Here.” He holds one of the helmets out to me. It’s black and shiny, but looks to be about the right size for a girl.
That is, a girl who wanted to ride a motorbike.
I.e. not me.
“I don’t do …” I shake my head and gesture at the death machine in front of us. “That.”
“Why not?” Jase asks, buckling his own helmet under his chin.
“Because it’s a death machine.”
“Ha!” Jase laughs, and steps closer to me. “You looked tense. Whenever I’ve got something on my mind, this always helps me peace out.”
“And do you?” I can’t help but think of the confrontation I witnessed earlier. “Have something on your mind?”
Jase runs his tongue over his lip, and that hint of his mouth is enough to send me flashing back to our kiss, and how it felt against my own. My body seems to sing, every cell standing to attention as I realise how close we’re standing, and how good he looks in the afternoon sun.
“Yeah.” His voice is a growl. “I do.”
He takes the helmet in my hands and places it on my head, buckling it up under my chin with all the tenderness and care in the world. It’s so completely at odds with everything else about him, and I go with it, not wanting to stop this closeness, this connection.
“You’re not going to die,” he says. “I’m a damn good rider.”
I bet you are.
“I’ll be really safe. It’s a great way to unwind, to just get all that stress out of your system.” He walks back toward the bike. “We’ll go on a scenic ride, just around the coast line, then back.” He straddles one leg over the seat, then pats the space behind him. “Come on.”
I purse my lips, because his words are so convincing. But I am petrified. This is a motorbike. And I don’t know the statistics, but I’m sure the odds of death on one of those things is so much greater than say, death by shark attack.
“Thanks anyway.” I unbuckle the helmet and start to slide it off my head. “I’m just going to take my car and …” I glance back at my car, and I freeze. Kat’s standing by the window, her head moving left to right as if she’s searching for me.
I can’t talk to her right now.
I’m not ready. Not after what happened last night.
Step three: Escape while you still can.
“Let’s go.” I click the helmet back up and all but run
over to Jase’s side.
He gives a throaty chuckle. “Okay then.”
I throw my leg over the bike and sit on the seat. The engine roars to life, the machine throbbing underneath me, and I cling to the back of the seat as tight as I possibly can, so hard that the metal digs into my palms. My heart races, and I feel so fragile and exposed on this skeleton of a vehicle. What the hell am I doing?
Jase turns back to look at me, and my fear must be written all over my face, because he leans back and with one arm, touches my shoulder. “Put your arms around me,” he yells. “It’s safer.”
Safe.
I don’t need to be told twice.
I fling my arms around his middle, shuffling forward in the seat so my body is flush with his. He’s firm under my hold, a rock, and a ping runs through my body.
“Hold on,” he yells, and then the bike grunts again and we start off through the car park. I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. We’re going slow, so slow that when I open my eyes, I see Kat staring at me, her jaw dropped, eyes wide. I shut my eyes again.
It’s just in time, because the engine really opens up and we hit the road. Wind is icy as it lashes my cheeks, and I grip Jase with everything I have. My pulse races, and my heart thumps so hard in my chest it might break out.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going—
“You’re not going to die,” Jase yells, and I force a weak smile. The smile only lasts for a millisecond though as we turn a corner, and the bike leans, it leans so that I’m closer to the road’s black surface.
“Shit!” I scream, trying to keep upright.
The moment passes, and once we’re straight, Jase’s hand warms mine around his waist. “Lean into the corners with me.”
I violently shake my head, then tremble out a “No.”
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
And I shouldn’t.
I have absolutely no reason at all to put my faith in this guy who I barely know, who I just saw having a confrontation with another scary-as-hell looking dude, but I find myself saying yes.
And deep down, I know it’s true.
How To Save A Life (Emerald Cove #1) Page 14