by Piper Payne
How can someone you barely know make you feel like life, every single minute of it, was supposed to happen exactly the way it did, so that they could come into it?
I can’t ignore my feelings. There’s now a small light in my depth of darkness; he’s becoming a slow addiction that I don’t think I’ll ever want to shake. Jesse has undoubtedly and irrevocably gotten under my skin. I’m scared. I don’t want to be just another girl to him. There’s something inside he’s fighting against. I can tell it’s there, like a moth I am drawn to its flame. He’s dark, jaded, and beautiful. He sets my senses on fire and I can’t imagine the passion that could ignite between us. I feel it. There’s a current running through us like static in the air after a lightning storm. He’s wild and careless and I selfishly want to drown in him.
Our life is a collection of moments stitched together to create the most beautiful of stories. Some moments are full of deep sorrow; some are so perfect they seem surreal. But they’re ours. Written and told. Beginning to end. My story has started a new chapter. I turned the page and he was there … and suddenly I want all of my moments of happiness to be stitched together with his.
This is my truth.
I drove to my apartment and ditched the blonde’s car a few blocks away, hoping if I left the keys in the ignition someone else would steal it.
I ran into my apartment, not giving a shit if anything waited for me. I welcomed it. I wanted them to finish off this pain. This wasn’t about a boy. Fuck Jesse, fuck Landon. I lost control of my life. I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I threw my journal on my bed, opened the secret compartment, and pulled out my release. The anticipation crawled through me like a waking limb. I walked into the bathroom and turned on the hot water, the process a ritual that would never be forgotten. I spent my entire life numb and hollow. Now I was jealous of those emotions and wanted them back. I was sick of crying. All off these pathetic feelings, spilling tears over and over again. I hated that I was weak and hurting. I wanted to reverse the clock and take back the control I once had over my emotions. I let these people hurt me, use me, betray me, and it was all my fault. I knew the consequences yet I took the risk, and now here I was, blade in my hand, ready to control my own pain. I opened up the toilet lid and purged myself of any feelings. It was the first step. I only purged when I cut, and before, when I was younger, I used to only cut when I needed to feel something. When I wanted to make sure I was still alive. Now I feel too much. I’ve changed; I adapted like a science experiment from one extreme to the other.
I wasn’t cutting to die, I just wanted the choice. I was tired of trying to be healthy and following my therapist’s advice. He told me to try. He told me to open my heart. But trying to be healthy when you were the poison, the infection, and the cause, was repetitious insanity. When I was in control, I knew my outcome. Healthy was tiring and painful. Being calloused was an empty survival. Alone, barricaded by my wall, no one could hurt me. No one could cause me pain but myself. The control. I controlled my pain. No one else. The skin would forgive, the blood exhilarated even the weakest pulse, and the pain welcomed you into the depths of humanity that only testing one’s life could give meaning to.
I felt the familiar urge stir inside me the moment I collapsed on the floor in Landon’s office bathroom. I’d spent years trying to heal myself from what others had done to me. But I was back at the beginning, admiring the sharp silver blade in my hand like it was my savior. The last time I cut was when we first moved to Salt Lake. I was always scared of cutting too deep, so instead I would make up for it with abundance. However, something came over me that night and all I wanted to see was red. The water just wasn’t red enough. That night I almost bled out in the tub, but June stopped the bleeding and stitched me back together like she usually does. That was when I decided to get help. At first I did it for June, because I never wanted to hurt her like that again—the one person who cared and needed me. But this need to cut had been growing inside of me; somehow Jesse calmed the storm. I touched myself instead of cut myself in his tub, even though I saw his razor sitting in front of me pleading for me to do it.
My next step was to drink, get empty-stomach wasted. It helped your brain move your hand, which moved the blade. This time I wanted to be sober. I didn’t want anything inhibiting the pleasure and pain of the first and last slice into my flesh. I dipped my toes into the scalding hot water. Steam surrounded me like a humid fog rising from the tub. My nerves told me to instantly pull my foot out, but I forced it to stay, welcoming the burning of my skin. I did the same thing with my other foot, my legs, and stomach, until my shoulders were completely under the scalding water. The pain was unbearable, but it soon vanished as my body accepted its punishment. My skin was bright red under the water, the familiar color eased and calmed my nerves.
Usually by now I would’ve already pierced through my skin. But I still lay there, blade in hand. Contemplating. Waiting. I touched the feather tattoo on my wrist, designed and placed as a reminder. It was beautifully perfect in its imperfection. A white feather with its slight curve and ruffles turned something ugly into a hidden secret. The day I got the tattoo I promised myself I’d never do this again. It represented my internal contradiction—shame and guilt from my past decisions reflected with strength and hope to move on.
My fingertips softly caressed the inked skin, feeling the raised ridges of hidden scars. The barbs of the feathers were my first years of cutting, tiny and thin, precise in angle and close together. I remember counting as I cut in a staccato rhythm, watching the crimson drip down my arm into the water. What turned into the vanes of the feather were the cuts that came into creation during the reign of my mother’s use of crystal meth. She would hum and sing the song Alouette, over and over again, laughing and taunting me like I was a fool. One day I realized I was. She tortured me with a song I hadn’t realized was directed toward me, a children's song from France about plucking the feathers, eyes, and beak from a lark in retribution for being woken up by her song. The lyrics were sharper than any blade because I knew she meant it. She’d sung it to me in French, looking me in the eyes sometimes. Mocking a child who cleaned up after her, took care of her. Je te plumerai la tête. I will pluck your head! Je te plumerai le bec. I will pluck your beak! Je te plumerai le cou. I will pluck your neck!
The water was cooling and I was losing my nerve. I pressed my thumb tightly to the shaft of the feather, the cut I did after I got out of juvie. I took all the blame for my mother’s tirade and robbery of our neighbor’s house. She told me if I took the blame she’d get better and go to rehab. I believed her. But she lied.
Finally the quill—the last cut and the deepest. The cut that June had bandaged. That night I had wished for absolution. I was tired. Tired of trying. Tired of breathing. Tired of running and living with the demons from my past. The deeper I cut, the more release I felt. I didn’t want to stop, which should’ve scared me but it didn’t. That night I watched a slit open in my unmarked skin until it poured red with a pulse. The pain was almost too much, but then it drifted away and I became whole once more.
I closed my eyes, remembering each mark as if they were freshly done. I brought the blade in front of me like it would answer my prayers, then quickly pressed it to my skin, upset at my earlier weak hesitation. The contradicting feelings battled inside my mind. I wanted control again, yet I knew once done, it was the cutting that controlled me. Owned me. Tonight I would feel better but tomorrow nothing will have changed except the scabbing reminder of yet another thing I lost control over. I began to hyperventilate as I pressed the blade and punctured the skin, relishing in the feeling of popping flesh. I wanted to drag the blade quickly but couldn’t move my hand. I could feel the pain and see the blood pool around the tip of the blade, but I couldn’t do it. I started crying, deep chest shaking cries. Confused, not knowing if this made me weak or strong. Pitying myself for being so inadequate that I couldn’t even do this one thing right anymore. I couldn’t move the blade.
> “AHHH!” I screamed, throwing it across the room, splattering tiny droplets of blood across the white tile floor. I sobbed until I couldn’t cry any longer, tears falling into the light pink bath like raindrops. I cried for the loss of myself, not knowing who I’d become. I cried for lives lost and the twist of cruelty that brought their deaths into my hands to avenge, and I cried for my heart because all I ever wanted was to love someone and have them love me in return.
As the morning came it brought clarity. I’d gotten in bed, lying there, numbly planning out my next moves. I knew the calculated steps I’d make next would be the most important. I had nothing left of myself to lose, and I was going to finish this fucking game the Blacks started once and for all.
I didn’t believe it myself when I walked into work this morning. I hid my Bronco around the block so all I had to do was hop the fence to my office building. I didn’t want anyone to know that I wasn’t staying at Jesse’s.
I walked into work and played the part. I was so disgustingly good at playing a fake, better version of myself that it scared me a little. During the show we promoted the ‘Love Me Larkin’ contest and talked about the bands we were booking for the summer outdoor concert series that would start in July. Everything seemed as it should.
I saw Landon walk into the building, straight into our common area; he was waiting for me. Max and Austin said on Sunday he’d gone to each of their homes, drunk and confrontational, trying to find me. I wanted to pretend it was because he cared, but for all I knew it was all part of his sick and twisted game.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, adding more saliva to churn in my sour stomach, while continuing with the last fifteen minutes of the show. The sight of him used to make my heart race and skin flush, but not anymore. The distance between us made it easier for me to cope with the destruction he’d caused, and Jesse made him fade almost completely, like skin pushing out a splinter. So much had happened since I left Landon’s bed that the moment he walked in the door, I realized my sorrow helped me let go of the first and only love I ever wanted to have. I knew I had to escape him, at least until Aspen, because keeping my heart broken was the only way I could do what I needed to do.
Six minutes later I could see Landon picking up his phone in aggravation. I’d been watching him through the reflection of a framed Pink Floyd poster that hung on the studio wall; he was struggling to make a decision, cursing loudly, looking at his watch.
My phone beeped letting me know Austin came up with a plan to get rid of him.
Austin: He thinks he has to go upstairs and take a phone call about a ruptured pipe at the construction site in Park City. It took forever to convince the receptionist that I couldn’t get through to him on his cell phone. It’s all I could think of off the top of my head. Hurry up and get out of here. Good luck and be careful.
As soon as Landon’s body disappeared behind the elevator doors, I grabbed my stuff and ran.
The February sun warmed the coldness surrounding me; I could tell spring would soon be on its way. Even though the ground and trees were covered in snow, it felt warmer and wetter. Tiny droplets of water fell off branches while birds flocked around in the brilliant blue sky.
I hadn’t been back here since I brought Landon. To help in my own undoing, I completely tarnished my sanctuary; it was as if I could imagine our footsteps through the snow recreating the night. I sat down on a fallen tree that was soggy and rotting, wrapping myself in a cotton blanket I kept in my Bronco for moments like this.
I blew into my hands for warmth as I looked out onto the city. I’ve sat here many times daydreaming, escaping from reality. Up here I could pretend and wish and hope for things I knew would never come true. And when I left I’d leave all of those dreams behind to blow into the wind, catching a breeze like dandelion seeds spread out over the valley below. The edge of hope.
“I thought I’d find you here,” a voice spoke softly, not wanting to scare me off. I could hear his footsteps crunching the snow as he approached, but I didn’t look back.
“Please talk to me, Larkin. Stop avoiding me. Stop running. Just please talk to me.” His weak and desperate voice slithered into my skull.
I stared out into the distance, heart pounding, muscles flexing, ready to flee. He stood there waiting for me to say something but sat down next to me in defeat, unable to handle the radio silence. The warmth of his body radiated from him, like he’d been running to get to me.
Minutes passed, then I choked out the words. “There’s nothing to say.”
“Liar!” he snapped. “What is going on? Just tell me. I have been a wreck the past few days trying to find you. You leave me a note and fucking disappear?” He raked his hands through his hair and then grabbed me, turning me to face him. I was catatonic at best. Everything I wanted to say had to wait because it would ruin everything. I couldn’t let him know I knew what he and his father had done, or about Ashley in his office, the storage unit, the money, the videotape … I couldn’t say a word because I didn’t know how deep his deceit ran.
“I know you have a fiancée!” The moment it left my mouth I felt sick and heartbroken all over again, like an anchor dropping into my gut.
He closed his eyes and slightly lowered his head. “Larkin, I’m sorry I was going to—”
“You’re sorry?” I cut him off, disgusted with his apology. The anger I’d been holding back began to pour out. “You have a fiancée and you lied to me!” I stood up, clenching my hands, staring down at him. “You used me, fucked me, and messed with my head!”
“I needed time. I wanted to tell you everything and explain. That was why I asked you to meet me Tuesday night, but you haven’t given me a chance! This whole week I’ve been going mad not being able to find you so I could tell you everything I wanted say!” He stood up, chest heaving, and each time he spoke his hands moved frantically along with his words.
“Tell me what, Landon?” I waited, looking him in the eyes, pleading for him to tell me something, anything, and come clean. To show me I was wrong, that everything I felt was real and not some elaborate hoax. This was his chance to tell me everything, but I could tell as he shuffled his feet staring through me, he was in too deep and there was no way out.
He said nothing.
“Bird got your tongue?” I continued with my farce. “Did you want to tell me that I was just your dirty secret until you got what you wanted? That you’ve been fucking your fiancée every time you went back to Aspen? Is that what you wanted to tell me, Landon? IS IT?” I shrieked, stumbling to turn around and walk away. I couldn’t let him melt the ice I tried to harden around my heart. He couldn’t find out I knew what he’d really done.
“Wait!” He ran after me grabbing my arm. “I don’t love her. I ended it. The marriage has always been a business arrangement between our families. I told my father I was done with everything!”
I threw his hands off of me, scrambling to get away. The moment he touched my skin I became sickened, my body wanting him even if my brain and heart didn’t.
“A business arrangement that you’ve been with since high school!” I choked. “Landon, I was falling in love with you! I think I’ve always been falling in love with you since the first day I saw you in Aspen.” The tears fell, uncontrolled and hated. “I let you in. I trusted you. Please let me walk away. You came into my life like a tornado and I’m barely hanging onto myself.”
“Friday night …”
“I was saying goodbye.” My voice and lips trembled as I closed my eyes. “I didn’t want to let you go just yet, even though I knew. I wanted to feel you once more. To feel us once more.”
When I opened my eyes, the look on his face was unbearable. He looked tortured with dark circles and an alcohol sheen to his skin. He stepped forward, reaching out for me, but I flinched in response. “I know I don’t deserve your trust, but please just hear me out.” He ignored my resistance, grabbing my chin so I’d look him in the eyes.
“I never expected to find you afte
r all of these years. I’ve been in love with you since I was seventeen years old. The football field, your short story, it was like you were there all along but I never knew it was you. Sometimes you only see things through blind eyes, and it wasn’t until I met you that mine were truly opened. It’s always been you. You’re this puzzle I’ve been collecting pieces to my entire life. I can’t lose you.” He placed my hand on his wrist while moving his fingers softly onto mine, pulse to pulse—a rhythmic beat joining us together. But even though I was right next to him, I felt so far away from where I wanted to be.
“I can’t love you. I can’t be with you. But I always will.”
He rested his forehead on mine gently. “Don’t do this. I … can’t … lose … you.” He whispered the words against my lips. I clung to hands that were suddenly forcing me to kiss him, a grip so tight it hurt. I pushed away, trying to fight him off. This kiss was everything: forceful, pleading, and desperate. I tasted the salt from my tears and the bourbon from his lips. I knew I would never recover from this man.
I broke free, pushing him away, touching my stinging lips. “Landon, I’m begging you … please let me go.”
And he did.
Sometimes I can feel my darkness, like a fragment of nerves inside of me somewhere, sparking my hate. I picture it moving throughout my body, the other cells letting it pass by, yielding to its master. It moves to my tongue when it wants me to spew beautiful, damaging words, it moves to my hands when it wants me to feel all it can take away, and it moves to my eyes to blind me from truly seeing the destruction I’ve done.
Being alone hasn’t always been such a bad thing. But being alone with my thoughts was a whole other affliction. The highs and lows of the past few months were something I’d never experienced before. My life had always been drifting barely above a heartbeat. But things were better. For once I was optimistic. For once I was happy. So I sat there deciding to fight for the happiness I’d found. A selfish part of me wanted to just walk away, or more like run. This time I had money, and with three million dollars I know June and I could vanish for good. But the mind follows you wherever you go. We’d never be free until we made things right.