Secret Lucidity(41)
“Lift up your shirt.”
“David, don’t,” I warn, my voice shaking as I do.
“I want to know what has you freaking out right now.”
He reaches his hand out again, and I swat it away, snapping, “Don’t touch me,” but his next attempt comes much too fast. Grabbing ahold of the fabric, he yanks it up, ripping it out of my hand.
“Jesus,” he mutters, and I fight against him, shoving my top back down.
My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach when I see the confusion and horror on his face. Tears spring from my eyes, and I ball my hands, throwing them against his chest, yelling, “You’re such a jerk!”
I push against him and run toward the garage, but he’s quicker than I am, grabbing me by the arm and pulling back.
“Let go of me!”
“Calm down,” he demands, but I don’t. All I want to do is get the hell out of here.
“Let go!” I struggle against his hold, but he refuses to budge.
“You’re not leaving. Not until you tell me what those cuts are all about.”
I want to die. Squeezing my eyes shut, I make one last attempt and swing my body to free myself from his hands, but he doesn’t relent. He bands his arms around me, pinning my back against his chest.
With a few more weakened efforts, I choke out a loud whimper, “Don’t make me do this,” as I go limp in his hold.
He lowers us to the floor when my knees give out, and he hunches his body over mine as I wail, tears falling down my cheeks. “Please, just let me go.”
“I’m not letting you go, Cam. You’re not running away either. I need you to talk to me.” He pulls me even closer to him, his chin coming to my shoulder before breathing in my ear, “God, baby, don’t cry like this.”
But how can I not? The second I tell him the truth, he’ll realize the freak I am and want nothing more to do with me.
“I’m sorry.”
“What could you possibly be sorry for?” he responds.
I lock my hands around his forearms, which are wrapped across my chest, and take in a deep breath to calm myself. When I’m able to quiet down, he asks, “Did you do that to yourself?”
Cringing in humiliation, I’m unable to speak when I pathetically nod my head yes.
He sighs, and I can hear the disappointment in it.
“Why?”
I shrug my shoulders.
“Don’t do that. Don’t hide from me because you’re scared.”
He loosens his grip, releasing the tension in his muscles as he tries to turn my shoulders to face him. But I can’t. I’m too ashamed to look him in the eyes.
“There is nothing you can’t tell me. You know that, right? If you’re afraid of judgment, don’t be. That’s not who I am.”
“How could you not judge me?”
He cups my chin and lifts my head up. And when I finally get the courage to look at him, he says with undeniable certainty, “Because I care about you. More than I probably should.”
With his words, a few more tears fall helplessly down my cheeks. He holds me in his arms, and when I rest my head over his heart, he pushes, “Tell me why?”
My face is hot against his skin but I curl into him regardless. And after taking in a deep breath, I reveal, “Because it feels good.”
“You’ve got to help me understand, babe.”
“Because . . .” I push my head harder against his chest, completely mortified. “Because when I cut, it’s the only time I can escape all my sadness. It’s easier to deal with physical pain.”
“Have you always done this?”
“No.”
“And that blood . . . did that happen today?”
Emotions well up again when I think about how lonely I felt earlier. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened? When we spoke on the phone you seemed fine.”
“I was missing my dad,” I tell him. “I went to his grave because I wanted to be close to him again.” I choke up, and my body trembles as I weep, “It’s not fair. I never even got the chance to say goodbye. One minute we were driving and the next I was waking up in the hospital.”
“You’re right; it isn’t fair,” he says softly, threading his fingers through my hair. “I hate that this happened to you, and that you’re in so much pain. You can’t hurt yourself like this though.”
“What does it matter?”
He pulls back and looks at me dead on. “You don’t think what you’re doing matters?” Biting down in frustration, his jaw flexes before continuing, “It matters to me, Cam.”
“Why?”
“Because you matter to me. Because somehow, ever since that night in the hospital, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.”
“So you just feel sorry for me?”
“No. That’s not it at all. There’s something far deeper inside you that’s been pulling at me for months now.”
“But I’m so screwed up.”
“We’re all screwed up, Cam. And yeah, life yanked the rug out from under you far too soon. Eventually, you’re going to have to pick yourself back up, and you have to stop doing this,” he says, pressing his hand flat over my stomach. “You feel like cutting, you call me.”