I feel more alone than ever. I’m afraid to tell Aspen. I don’t know how to explain it to where it’ll make sense. The anxiety of it all makes me want to cut more and deeper. I cut until I bleed and nearly pass out. It helps me forget, even if it’s just temporary.
Mom and Dad think it’s all an act, so I pretend everything’s okay when they’re around. I pretend I’m their happy, adventure-seeking girl. Aspen sees the scars, but always blinks away. I think she’s afraid to talk about it, and I’m afraid she’ll start seeing how weak and tortured I feel. I wish I knew how to explain it so they would understand, but when I try to sleep, it feels as if the life is being sucked out of me more and more each night.
I’m not sure how much more I can take.
“This is a week before.” She flips the page again.
I cut deeper than I ever have before last night. My wrists have all scared over, but my legs are like fresh canvases, waiting for my marks on them. The sight of fresh blood surfaces a new wave of emotions—one part relief, one part grief.
My thighs ache with the dull pain that the razor left behind. I focus on the pain, focus on the blood gushing down my legs and over my knees and ankles. I feel lifted as if I’m floating and the world can’t catch me. The feeling is only temporary, but for those few moments, the pain vanishes and I’m no longer that girl.
But then reality comes crashing back down, and I’m that girl again. The dreams, the dark thoughts, the sadness—it consumes me. It’s getting harder to pretend that everything’s okay. Smiling is now a constant chore and acting like everything is fine is a constant reminder that it’s not.
I just have to wait until our birthday.
One more birthday with Aspen.
Because I love her.
Tears fall from my cheeks as I see the agony written all over her face. I want to reach inside and take all her pain away, but I know this has been haunting her for too long to ever fully be pain-free.
“You don’t have to read anymore.”
She sniffs, wiping under her eyes. “No, I want to.”
She flips the page and starts again.
I died in my dream last night. I’ve had similar dreams before of floating up to the sky and watching above, as my body lay motionless. It doesn’t even hurt. There’s no pain, no remorse. All I feel is relief. I’m lighter and for the first time, I smile genuinely.
When I wake in the morning, I know I shouldn’t be feeling those things, but I can’t help it. I want to feel those things—the happiness, the relief of no longer being in pain—but I never will as long as I’m here, suffering.
Our fourteenth birthday is tomorrow and Mom is already preparing everything. Aspen is glowing as usual, talking about how in just a couple of years, we’ll be getting our driver’s license. Then she goes on about how much fun it’s going to be going to proms and homecomings, dates at the movies, football games on Friday nights. I always agree and smile, but inside, I’m dying. I want to puke anytime I think about those things. How long am I supposed to pretend? I’m hanging on by a thread and the only thing getting me through it is knowing Aspen and I will share our special day together one more time.
I love her with my whole heart. I cry in my bed at night when I know she’s sound asleep thinking about how much I’m going to miss her. How much I’m going to miss. But this weight on my chest feels too heavy that I can barely breathe anymore. I hate that I can’t be like her, talk about what the future holds, and all the stuff she gets excited over. But as I look at the scars on my body, I know the pain is overbearing. Aaron barely pays attention to us anymore as it is with his part-time job and new girlfriend, but lately, he’s been looking at me with this look in his eye as if he knows something’s different. I smile back and put his worries at ease, because…what else can I do?
Aspen’s voice is somber and gravely, but she wipes her face again and turns the page.
“This is her last entry.” Her throat swells up as she chokes out a sob. I grip her tighter as if she’ll float away at any given time.
I love you, Aspen.
Her hand releases the journal as she bows her head down and cries. I shift her body into mine, the journal falling to the floor. I grip her with everything I have. She clings to me like her life support, her body shaking and convulsing as she wraps her arms around me and releases all the energy she has left out, shattering around me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ASPEN
My body feels wrecked as I slowly wake up, feeling the warmth around me. My eyes flutter open just enough to see that I’m in my bed, wrapped in blankets.
I’ve no idea how long I’ve been asleep or what time it is. I reach a hand out and search for my phone, but it’s not in my usual spot on the nightstand.
I shift, trying to feel around for it on the floor, but an arm pulls me back, and as I inhale his scent, I know Morgan is laying with me here.
“What are you looking for?” he asks, his voice deep and hoarse.
“My phone. What time is it?”
“It’s the middle of the night. You fell asleep in my lap.”
I feel my breathing staggering as I remember everything from last night. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”
“Aspen…” He grabs my jaw and tilts it upward. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that again, you understand? If anything, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have to go through this. I’m sorry I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing, but I’ll do anything to help you.”
I close my eyes as tears begin to fill up. “You’re doing it. Just having you here is all I need.”
Feeling my chest tighten, I press my body against his and inhale. His strong arms capture me in a tight grip, molding our bodies together.
We lay there until my breathing steadies, but I still don’t feel right.
“I think I’m going to take a shower.”
“Are you sure? I’ll hold you all night if you need me.” He looks down at me under his long lashes as the corner of his lips tilt slightly.
“Yeah, I think it’ll help me feel better.”
He leans down and presses a soft kiss on my lips. “Just holler if you need me, okay?”
I nod. “I will. I won’t be long.” I shift and throw the covers off. I grab a change of clothes before walking out of the room.
Needing to soothe my dry throat, I walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. It feels as if I’ve been crying for hours and that my body is drained of every ounce of energy possible. Setting the glass down in the sink, I walk out and glance to where my studio is. Notebooks are spread out on the floor, my easel and canvas are still out, paint tubes scattered alongside.
I take a step and shiver as memories of reading over her journals smack me right in between the eyes. The words she wrote, the pain she felt, the secret she took to her grave—all these things that’ll haunt me for the rest of my life.
Feeling my throat burn with acid, I cover my mouth and run to the bathroom as the water comes right back up. As I lean over the toilet, dry heaving, and crying, I can’t focus on anything but the emptiness I feel inside.
Anticipating another attack, I brace myself for what’s to come.
That’s the one thing people never tell you about anxiety—people like me know it’s an irrational state of mind, but we can’t stop it from happening. Everything in my logical brain screams that it’s going to be okay, I’m fine, that this is ridiculous, but that other piece of me can’t see that logic and refuses to listen. The dichotomy of it all is overwhelming and completely frustrating.
Splashing cold water on my face, I look down into the sink, watching the water swirl down the drain while my mind shatters my walls and leaves me helpless. I don’t know how long I stare into the water, but my eyes burn with tears and my chest aches heavily with guilt.
Pushing off the vanity, I start the shower and undress, needing to cleanse my body. Thoughts of her consume my mind, images of that day take over, and soon, I’m cu
rled up into a ball as the water streams over me.
I hear Morgan’s muffled voice above me as he grabs me and pulls me up. “Aspen!” My body goes limp as the emotional exhaustion cripples me. I feel my body against his chest as he holds me tight and walks me out.
“Sweetheart, open your eyes. Please.” I hear the desperation in his tone as he places me down on the bed.
I try, but they close the second I get them to open.
“Can you hear me?”
I nod.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I’m just so tired,” I manage to say.
“I’m going to get you dressed, okay?”
I nod, lying helplessly as he dries me off with a towel and dresses me like a two-year-old. It’s mortifying, but my body is so drained, moving seems like an impossibility right now.
“I know what I need to do,” I finally say as he tucks me back in.
“Shh, baby. You need rest.” He soothes me with his hand over my head and pushes the hair back. “Let’s talk when you’re feeling better.”
With no energy to argue, I nod my head and let sleep take over.
MORGAN
I don’t sleep the entire time I lay with Aspen. I watch.
I watch and make sure she’s breathing. I watch her chest move up and down in steady rhythms. I watch her body calmly sleep as I tuck her inside my arm.
I wish I knew what to say or even do for her. I know when I first returned home and I’d run into friends or friends of my parents, they’d give me that look. The look of pity. They’d tell me how sorry they were, and if there was anything that they could do to just let them know.
But there’s never a right thing to say to anyone who loses a sister or brother. Even with the circumstances, the emptiness still exists. But she’s been fighting this battle for six years. Six long years with no answers or closure, and now it’s all come surfacing at once.
I can’t blame her for handling it the way she is. I just wish I knew how to help her through it.
“Aspen, sweetheart,” I whisper as I kneel next to the bed. She’s still in a deep sleep, but I don’t want her to think I just left her. “Baby, I have to pick Natalia up from my mom’s and take her to school. I’ll be right back, okay?” I set a glass of water down on the nightstand. “I brought you some water.”
She shifts slightly, moaning as I rub a hand alongside her arm. I kiss her temple and stand up.
After dropping Natalia off at school, I make a quick coffee run before heading back to Aspen’s apartment. I expected her to still be sleeping or at least in her bed, drinking the water and relaxing.
But that’s not the scene I walk into at all. Hardly.
When I walk in with our cups of coffee, I hear music blaring from her studio again, and I immediately begin panicking that she’s right back where she was last night. I set the coffees down on the kitchen counter and walk to the studio, anticipating the same scene as I walked into the night before.
There’s paint everywhere, her brushes strewn on the floor haphazardly, and she’s standing there in the middle of a mini-tornado.
“Aspen?” I call out slowly walking up behind her in hopes I don’t scare her. “Sweetheart?” She’s standing in front of her easel, painting with harsh, aggressive strokes. I can feel her anger seething from the back of her head, smoke blowing out of her ears.
I watch as she furiously attacks the canvas with her brush, making stroke after stroke, no real concept of what she’s painting. I notice the finger marks along her jeans where she’s wiped the paint from her fingers. Her beautiful golden hair is in a tangled mess on top of her head.
I stand next to her and see the tight lines on her face as she focuses on the canvas in front of her. I call her name again, but she doesn’t move.
Walking over to the iPod dock, I turn the music off. The silence is deafening, and the moment the sound ceases, Aspen turns towards me, her arms collapsing at her sides, paintbrush falling to the floor. I’ve never seen someone look more devastated than she looks at this moment. Her normally bright eyes are swollen and bloodshot. Her lips are puffy, but not in the sexy way after she’s been thoroughly kissed. It’s the kind of puffy a person gets when they’ve been crying. And by the looks of it, she’s been crying a lot.
“Aspen…” My voice is rough with emotion.
Her face crumples and fresh tears fall down her cheeks. Her voice cracks on my name, her body sways slightly, and I close the distance between us, wrapping her in my arms before she can fall. She buries her face into my chest and fists my shirt in her hands.
“Sweetheart, what happened?”
After a beat, she steadies herself and speaks. “I called my mom.”
“C’mon, let’s sit,” I offer, but she shakes her head.
“I asked why she sent me them. I asked if she’s read them or if she had any idea she was feeling that way.”
“Okay…and what’d she say?”
She wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand, her eyes fixed on something on the wall. “She denied everything. Said she was just going through old things, cleaning up the room, when she found a bunch of her stuff. She was going to give them to me when I came home, but since I never did, she mailed them instead.”
“You don’t believe she didn’t read them?”
She shakes her head. “No, she sent them to me knowing what was inside them.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because she’s punishing me.”
I place my hands on top of her shoulders, her eyes finally looking up at me. “Why? Why would you say that?”
“Because you don’t know my mother. Something changed the day Ari died. The mom I knew died along with her. When I didn’t come back home per her request, she sent them to me knowing they’d hurt me. She’s awful like that.”
A fresh wave of tears fall down her cheeks, but this time, she doesn’t wipe them away. I see the pain in each tear that slips down to the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, pulling her to my chest. I don’t know what to say, or even if there is anything I can say, so I just hold her for as long as she needs it.
“As much as I hate her, I’m glad she sent them to me,” she says softly after a few moments pass.
“You are?”
She takes a step back and nods. “It gave me what I needed. It gave me answers. Knowing the truth is more painful, but at least I’m not left with what ifs.” She blinks, clearing her eyes. “I hate that she suffered. I hate that she didn’t tell me, and I hate that I didn’t know.”
“I know, baby.” I rub a hand up and down her air, feeling the goose bumps against my palm. “It can’t be easy to digest.”
I help her clean up, her mood shifting back and forth from bitterness to sadness. I know this can’t be easy for her, but I don’t push her to talk about it. I know her life’s just been shifted upside down.
“Thanks for helping me clean all that up,” she says softly as we lay on the couch.
“Of course,” I say soothingly. “I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her, just in case she needs to hear it.
She wraps an arm around my waist and nuzzles herself under the crook of my arm. “I know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ASPEN
Hearing my mom’s pathetic excuses over the phone make me want to vomit.
She’s managed to ruin half of my life, and I can’t stand the thought of giving her anymore to control. She’s a puppet master, manipulating people into thinking she’s one person, but in actuality is this horrible woman inside. Ari’s death wrecked her, as it did me, but instead of leaning on each other to heal, she’s just poured more hurt and added to the pain.
I feel content that I’ve officially told my mother off and let go of whatever relationship we had left. It wasn’t much, but she managed to place a hold on me that I finally released.
No more.
I only wish it mended the ache in my heart. The fact that Ariel let go of my ha
nd on purpose is killing me instead, but I don’t want to go back to that girl—the girl who’s friends all give pity looks and bows their heads anytime I’m around. I dealt with enough of that during high school, and I don’t want to go back.
Morgan’s been absolutely incredible. He only mentions it if I bring it up and is sincere in listening to me. He watches me paint and it no longer makes me nervous. Rather, I find it soothing, comforting in the way he interprets the pieces.
Natalia and I watch movies together when Morgan has grading to do and works in his office. I see a lot of her in me—shutting down and building the walls up around her. It’s not an easy thing to process, but protecting your heart is the only control you feel you have.
“What’s your favorite subject?” I ask one night when we’re alone.
“Reading,” she responds immediately, not keeping eye contact.
“What’s your favorite book?”
“The Hunger Games.”
“Oh, I haven’t read that one yet.”
“It’s way better than the movies,” she adds.
“Aren’t they always?” I crack a smile.
She smiles back. “Yeah, usually.”
“What’s your favorite sport?” I ask, pushing for more excuses to get her to talk.
“Football.”
“Really?” My eyes light up. “Mine, too!”
“Yeah, it’s pretty hard to resist hunky men in tight pants.”
I burst out in laughter, but her face barely moves. “C’mon, that’s funny,” I press.
“You don’t have to do this.” She sighs, keeping her eyes glued to the TV.
“Do what?” I draw my brows together.
“Pretend to be nice to me.”
“Who says I’m pretending?”
“It’s a classic rookie move.”
“Excuse me?”
Pushing the Limits: A Student/Teacher Romance Page 27