Secret Lucidity(24)

I’m so pissed off at everything and everyone that I want to punch my fists through the walls. With so much trapped inside me, my flesh tingles for release. My teeth grit as I pace my room. I claw my fingers through my hair and walk into my bathroom. Turning on the water, I cup my hands together and splash my face in an attempt to extinguish the burn that’s itching beneath my skin. Dousing my face again, my elbow hits my makeup bag, sending it falling to the floor.

“Dammit.”

Everything spills out around my feet, and when I kneel down to clean up the mess, my hands stop when they land on my nail clippers. I fall onto my bottom and lean my back against the wall as I hold cool metal in my hand. With a body housed inside skin too tight, I swivel out the metal file, holding it firmly between my finger and thumb. All four of my limbs sizzle with pent-up tension, and when I aim the tip of the file against the inside of my forearm, I bite my jaw shut, pinch my eyes closed, and press down. I hold my breath as I try to puncture the skin, but the file is too blunt to penetrate, which only amplifies my irritation.

The pressure building inside reaches the point of testing the boundaries of my body. My skin flares, begging for relief, so I take the clippers to the same spot on my arm, press my lips together, and squeeze the lever, snipping through delicate flesh.

A sort of euphoria whispers through my veins the moment I see a bubble of dark maroon spill out of the tiny cut. Metal clanks against the tile floor, and I drop my head back against the wall and close my eyes. I relax as I feel my skin loosen around muscle and bone. My arm falls beside me, and I relish the sensation of a single stream of blood trickling down to pool in the palm of my hand. From one single snip to my skin, all my senses forget about everything—everything except this morbid unleashing.

I remain here, fading quietly in synchronicity with the evening sun.

Peacefulness.




I replace my dad’s broken frame with one that used to hold a photo of my mom and set it on my dresser. Then, I grab my laptop, flop down on my bed, and search for something on Netflix to binge watch. I’m still scrolling through the different shows when my phone chimes with an incoming text.

Kroy: Where are you?

Me: Wasn’t feeling well this morning. Staying home for the day.

Truth is, I can’t stomach the thought of having a repeat of yesterday. Once was enough, so I decided to ditch. It’s not like my mom would care if she knew. She hasn’t come out of her room since our fight. Never in my life have I spoken to her the way I did yesterday, and even though I’m still furious with her, I love her—she’s still my mother. So, when I woke up, I knocked on her door and offered to get her a bite to eat. She declined and then told me to leave her alone, so I did.

Halfway through a terrible movie I’m too lazy to turn off, my phone rings. I freeze when I see David Andrews lit across the screen. I sit up on my bed and stare down at his name, but I don’t answer.

When the ringing stops, I wait in suspense to see if he leaves a voice mail, but he doesn’t. Instead, my phone chimes with a text.

David: Tell me everything’s fine and that I shouldn’t be worried about you.

I read his text again, feeling that same metallic strike I felt in his office yesterday before responding.

Me: Everything’s fine. I’ll be at school tomorrow.

He doesn’t text me back, and I don’t realize until I wake up the next day that I lied to him.

Another day of skipping classes drones on. Instead of getting lost in mindless movies, I decide to spend the day reading after an hour in the pool, doing some water rehab on my shoulder. It’s still sore, but it feels good to do a little light swimming.

Both Kroy and Linze have already texted me by the time I pull myself from the water. I keep up the lie that I still don’t feel well, but I know they don’t believe me. It’s a lame excuse anyway.

Next time, I’ll have to try harder.

By day three of being a no-show at school, I simply choose not to respond when they text. That doesn’t stop Kroy from showing up at my front door after his football practice.

“What are you doing here?”

He eyes me up and down. “You’re not sick, are you?”

“Cut me a little slack here.”

“I have been, Cam. But when you start lying to me . . .” He steps into the foyer and waits until I close the door before he continues, “This isn’t you.”

“Kroy, please don’t do this.”

“Do you know how hard this is, to see you like this?”

“Like what?” My tone hinges on defensiveness.

“You’re so far from who you used to be.”

“How am I supposed to respond to that? Am I supposed to apologize for being sad?”

“It’s not that you’re sad,” he says, standing in front of me with his hands on my shoulders. “You’re just . . . different. And before you say I don’t understand, know that I want to. But it’s almost as if you don’t want me to understand. Like you’re hiding from me because, for some reason, you don’t want us to be able to connect.”

His words annoy me, and the scab on my arm begins to itch beneath the Band-Aid. I hate that he’s making this about him, blaming my behavior as the cause of his discomfort around me. The accusation that I’m doing this all wrong stings. It’s not as if death handed me a how-to manual for grieving and I forgot to read it. For once, I just want someone to accept me as is and not try to sway the choices I make or change the way I’m handling myself. Why can’t everyone just let me be, assure me that I’m okay, support me, and stop judging every move I make?