Trust(10)

Generally, at home, things were better. People left me alone. Mostly. We had to call the cops on some overzealous reporters sneaking through our garden and loitering out front. I dropped all of my social media accounts and sure as hell didn’t answer the phone. But at least there were no doctors or nurses constantly checking on my condition. Though I did miss the good pain meds.

After a few days of me assuring Mom of my well-being, she went back to work. Mom managed the front desk at a resort near the lake. Over a year ago when I turned sixteen, she started doing the night shift. It paid better, apparently. Though I think she also liked it being quieter. Given the new circumstances, she offered to change over to working during the day so I wouldn’t be in the house at night on my own. But I told her it was fine.

At home, I could eat what I wanted, or I could freak out for no reason. Generally no one was around to judge. Just in case, I avoided TV and the internet unless Mom and I were doing our Sunday TV-series together time. Last year we’d watched Nashville; this year it was The 100. I honestly didn’t miss social media, given what a clusterfuck it had turned into. I lacked the care and the energy to deal with it. Besides, who needed it? I had my bed, perfectly positioned beneath my bedroom window for staring up at the sky. When I couldn’t sleep, or didn’t want to sleep, there were stars to count and a moon to stare at. Bet it was quiet on the moon. Peaceful with no people. The one downside to the situation was my focus had been shot to shit. Pun intended. I couldn’t seem to concentrate on reading. My books sat on their shelves, staring at me accusingly. Every single damn time I tried to read, the words would blur and my mind would wander. Surely it was enough that my best friend had betrayed me, without my books deserting me as well? It sucked.

All of the pictures of Georgia had been taken down and thrown away. Years of friendship, gone. I felt angry and bereft, completely and utterly alone. Loving someone sucked.

Interestingly enough, it turned out that I now mostly used my phone to hang up on anyone who called. Easily done, since there was no one I actually wanted to talk to. If someone stopped by to visit, I feigned sleep or didn’t answer the door. Mom found some therapist for me to talk to, and I found excuses not to go. With me barely managing to keep my shit together as is, a therapist might drag up all sorts of horrible truths.

Gradually, my bruises faded to yellow and green. Man, did my ribs take their sweet time healing; in the meantime, any kind of movement hurt. Turned out little could be done for cracked ribs; you just had to wait while they healed. An ugly pink line dissected my right eyebrow, reaching another couple of inches up toward my hairline. Courtesy of Chris pistol-whipping me.

Despite doing my best to ignore the world, time passed. School was looming, God help me. The new school year would start again in a couple of weeks. In life, unless you’re willing to run away and live in the woods and risk being eaten by bears, some things just were unavoidable.





“Edie, hurry up,” called Mom.

“Just a minute,” I yelled back, doing up the zip on my gray school skirt. Yay for uniforms. Not.

Toothpaste on and I cleaned my teeth, working the brush back and forth with great zeal. A little concealer and a lot of foundation hid the remaining bruises along with the shadows under my eyes. I’d tied my hair back in a low ponytail, leaving a bit at the front to sort of sweep over my forehead and tuck behind my ear. If this style didn’t cover the scar, I’d cut myself some bangs. Lack of sunlight during the last while had left me sickly pale, but whatever. I’d done my best to look presentable.

“Edie, you’re going to be late!”

I paused in the process of giving my molars a scrub to bellow my reply. Froth from the toothpaste slid into the back of my throat and my gag reflex kicked in. Just that easy, my heartbeat hammered, sweat breaking out all over my body. God, it was just like that night, having the gun in my mouth.

I coughed into the sink, spitting out the toothpaste. My breakfast of coffee and Pop-Tart followed straight after, stomach heaving. Going, going, gone.

Dammit, my ribs hurt. Not good.

I turned on the cold tap, washing out the sink, sipping a little water to wash the taste of acid from my mouth. So gross. The bathroom stank of sick. A slow breath in, then out. Everything was okay. I wasn’t at the Drop Stop gagging on the barrel of a gun. No one stood behind me; no one was even in sight. It was just a random accident involving too much toothpaste, for heaven’s sake.

“Calm down, you idiot,” I told myself. “You’re fine.”

“Edie—” Mom appeared in the doorway, then stopped cold. “What’s wrong?”

I swallowed hard. “Nothing.”

Worry lined her face. I hated that.

“Seriously,” I said. Mouth rinse was what I needed; I’d give the toothbrush a pass for now. I swished the minty goodness around with my tongue, then spat it out. “All ready.”

“Are you sure? You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you want me to drive you?”

“No. I’m fine.” I squeezed past her, a fake smile on my face. “See you this afternoon.”

She followed me out, eyes boring holes into my back.

“Your hair looks lovely,” she said.

“Thanks, Mom.” I gave my ponytail a nervous tug. Ouch. My scalp still hadn’t fully healed from Chris taking a chunk out of it. At least it wasn’t anything visible, like the scar above my eye. “’Bye.”