After I Wake (16 page)

“That sounds like something I would say. Don't do that.” His head faces his bowl again, and the conversation is over.

Upon our return to the room we pack up quickly and quietly. I think we were going to wander and do some shopping and visit Magda again, and I wouldn't mind another cinnamon bun, but it is clearly time to go home. As we go over the hotel room, picking up our stuff and making sure we haven't forgotten anything, I slip a notebook into my pocket. I need to write because it is something that makes me happy, and it stands to reassure because I did not think I would write again. But I am now and that's important.

Every thought I have had today I can thank Emmett for. He's ingrained himself in my life. The writing—he helped with, the poetry thing—he wanted to go and that helped me cave. The award he was there to see me receive. I wonder vaguely if Emmett's mother was waiting to move out and this was the opportunity she needed.

I am overwhelmed with grief for everything Emmett is going through, and on the train I write down every thought I'm having because they are important. He rebuffs my every attempt at conversation, and it is incredibly frustrating, so I just lean against him as I write. Figuratively, I'm supporting him, though he is literally supporting me. We balance it out.

We arrive back in Connecticut quickly with nothing important happening, and it's a relief. We stop at Emmett's first to drop him off, and I see his father in the window, watching his son pull his suitcase out of the trunk before running up the front steps and into the house. I can hear his bedroom door slam from the confines of the car.

 

 

I
T
'
S
ONLY
been a few hours since we got home, and it is two in the morning. I'm lying in bed, completely awake. Emmett hasn't spoken to me once, despite my multiple texts, and I'm going back to school on Friday. I need him, and I feel guilty for needing him, but the man is a rock, and I miss him, and he's going through something, and I want to be there for him like he was for me, because all I had to do was text, and Emmett would be at my door. He's a good person, a people person, like, he can read them, and I'm jealous, but maybe I'd be better at reading people if I hadn't spent so much time obsessed with me.

My thoughts are swirling around and around in my head. I miss Emmett. I need Emmett. He's a rock. I should text him, but when I was having issues, he always waited for me to text him.

I look at the clock, and it is now 2:29. I stare at the clock until it reads 2:33, and then I sit up slowly, navigating my mattress so that it doesn't squeak when I stand. I press my ear to the door, listening to the silence. After a moment, I hear the dog snoring vaguely down the hall, her breaths even and soft as they snort in and out. My mom is not awake, because when she sleeps, she does not snore, but she breathes loudly enough that I can tell through the moderately thin walls. She's definitely out.

It is not cold enough outside to warrant the furnace running, and it is not hot enough that I have the air conditioner on, so there is silence upstairs, and it leaves me alert. If the air conditioner were on, its rumble would mask my mother's footsteps, and I could get caught. The weather is perfect, and I am thankful for that. I am reassured.

I step back slowly, placing my feet toe to heel, not making a sound on the hardwood. I pivot once I reach the rug that lives under my bed, facing the thing in order to crouch down and shove my arm under the mattress. I pull out a small makeup bag and sit on my bed, clutching the bag between my knees and unzip it slowly. It's full of wadded-up tissues, and I carefully extract one, unwrapping the layers to reveal a small head I pulled off of a shower razor. There are three blades in it. They'll suit my purpose just fine.

The feelings of guilt and grief have not subsided and have settled into my stomach, leaving me with a pit that will not go away. I press gently on the blade with my index finger. It's only a little dull, but it is clean and will draw blood, and that's all I need. I put the blade back in its tissue for a moment and grab the left sleeve of my shirt and pull on it, sliding my arm out so the shoulder of my shirt is gathered in my armpit and I contemplate the smooth skin, running a thumb over it before picking the blade back up.

“Fuck it all,” I whisper under my breath. Because that's how it is. I thought I was better. I thought I was not going to do this anymore, but it would seem I will be because my world's gone to shit, and I cannot cope, and for a moment, I really do not care.

The worst part is in my head. Rationally, I know very well that I shouldn't be taking anything out on myself because it won't solve anything, and it'll set me back, but the impulsive, emotional side wins out because it is freeing and calming, and I am coping, and there is a dark happiness in the dark drops springing to life on my upper arm.

As I drag the blade back and forth, not sawing at my arm but kind of close, drawing blood, I'm so full of adrenaline that it doesn't hurt as I tear my skin apart, and I engage in a mental battle.

My thoughts are on the emotional, that people make this romantic and beautifully tragic and that angers me because I know rationally that this is not beautiful, that scarring your own skin is not beautiful, but I cannot stop because I'm so fucked up in the head that I think it is gorgeous because I feel free and there is adrenaline flowing through me and while I've never been high, I am high on the feeling and there is a little voice in the back of my head screaming and crying and begging me to stop, but I am ignoring it in favor of the worst thing to do in a situation and I'm not sure if I'm fully aware that I am crying, silently, but there are tears on my face but I'm enjoying it and it makes me so mad that I enjoy literally tearing my skin open so that it bleeds and then puckers and scars over, I hate this and I love it and I hate that I love it and love that I hate it. It's rational versus emotional and emotional wins every fucking time. I hate it I hate it
I hate it
.

But I love it and I can't stop.

The clock reads 2:45 a.m., and I grab a tissue from the box on my bedside table and fold it in half in order to dab at the remaining drops of blood. I stopped the cutting a few minutes ago, and I have been waiting for my arm to clot and stop bleeding. With the other half of the tissue, I wipe off the razor carefully, putting it back into its tissue cocoon and zip the small bag back up before putting it back under my mattress just as silently as I retrieved it. The now bloodied tissue follows it, and I crawl back into bed and arrange myself on my right side, the way I've slept every night for months.

A few more tears slide free, and I stare at the wall. It's three in the morning. It's Wednesday. I'm going back to school Friday for the first time since May, and now it's almost October. I spent the night forgetting what it's like to be a human, and I don't know if I'll remember in time for school. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do anymore.

And, being the stupid person I am, I've just had a cutting relapse.

 

 

I
T
'
S
FINALLY
Friday, and I don't want to go school. I need to go, and I know that I need to, but returning to school and facing the people who sent me into the entire hand ordeal is a necessity. I dress slowly, making sure my arms are covered and that the scab on my arm doesn't tear open. It did on Wednesday morning, and my mom almost saw it, but I pulled a blanket around my shoulders and hid my blood-droplet-stained shirt in the depths of my closet. She doesn't know. Nobody is going to find out.

I wander downstairs with my backpack weighing down my shoulders. It's like the calm before the storm again. There are no books in my backpack. The only thing in it is the very last of the makeup work from the end of last year and the summer homework everyone is expected to do and be done with on the first day of school. The people at school really have done a great thing, bending the rules so I could spend my senior year with the same class that I've spent every other year with. I'd hate to be a junior. Again.

I am seriously worried that Emmett won't be there because I need him, but I still can't get ahold of him, and it freaks me out.

I eat breakfast silently, and my mother actually makes lunch for me, something that hasn't happened in a while. I watch while chewing my food as she puts my sandwich in a bag with an apple and some other stuff. I can't taste my breakfast, and I feel numb with fear, which is new. I'd rather go back to the National Poetry Accolades.

I don't say much, and my mom tactfully makes conversation, chattering about how empty the house will feel now that I'm going to school, but I mumble something about coming back home. She brings up Emmett, asking if I've heard from him, and I just shake my head. I'm trying to help, but he won't listen, I explain as I put my dishes in the sink.
If he doesn't get back to me, I'm storming his house
, I think. Because this shit has gone way too far.

My mom nods thoughtfully, suggesting I send one more text because she's concerned too, and I know because Emmett spends so much time at our house, and I thought it was for me, but he was probably avoiding arguing parents too, and I keep feeling stranger and stranger, and I'm not sure how to process my emotions, and I tell my mom that while I take my antidepressants, which I think have lost their effectiveness or something, because I can feel heaviness settling back into my limbs and emotion leaching out, and I have nothing to say.

My mom has always driven me to school; working from home allowed her to do that for me, and I'd take the bus home. Today is no different. I glance at myself in the little mirror in the car and press my hair down and make faces at myself for no reason. I don't wear makeup, other than at the Accolades, and school isn't special enough to warrant me putting any effort whatsoever into my appearance.

I get to the school early, and there are people here already, looking just as miserable as I feel. I go into the main office to get all the emergency contact forms I missed and then am directed to my guidance counselor. The ladies in the main office welcome me back profusely, and I wonder how much they know, based on the rumors and gossip, and what my mom has told them in passing conversation when she dropped off my makeup work.

There is a bulletin board on the wall with bright letters that spell out the phrase “Our Students Are Stars!” There is a newspaper clipping with the yearbook picture I took last year and a headline talking about my poetry and the National Poetry Accolades. I wander across the guidance office to look at it before being ushered into a seat across the desk from my guidance counselor. She grins this really huge and toothy grin, and it's supposed to be welcoming, but it's just disconcerting.

“Hello, Carter!” she chirps, literally
chirps
, and I have to try my hardest not to grimace.

“Welcome back, it's been a while,” she continues cheerily while I suppress a truly vicious eye roll. Eye rolls are so unappreciated these days.

“We have your schedule for your senior year based on the classes you registered for last February. It looks like you'll be taking precalculus”—now I suppress a groan—“biology, poetry, civics, French, Shakespeare, and it looks like you'll have a study hall for your last class. You are aware that means you can leave early?” I nod and smile and pretend that everything's hunky-dory for her oversized smile. It's too early for this shit.

“So, according to your schedule you have lunch during civics, and your class will be split into two parts so you can go to lunch.” I clench my teeth and make vague sounds of agreement, but I've been in the school since I was a freshman, and I know how the schedule and the lunch schedule work, and I do not need reminding. I focus on the jar of candy on the desk, eyeing it. She notices that I have stopped listening and sees me staring at the colorful wrappers. My guidance counselor opens the jar and gestures to me, so I take a small package out, tearing open the corner with my teeth, before quietly putting the brightly colored candy on my tongue. I mutter a quiet
thank you
around the sweet.

“Do I have any classes with Emmett Lewis?” I lean forward and cut her off. She seems a bit surprised, and I lean back, glad to have distracted her.

“Well, I don't know.” She's too perky for 7:10 a.m., and it annoys me beyond belief. How is anyone this perky, ever? “You'll find out today when you go to those classes.” I blink a few times and nod as if that hadn't occurred to me. I give her the big pile of makeup work and get my schedule and a small assignment notebook in return, so I thank her quietly before going to my first class, glad to be out of the office.

I climb the stairs to the second floor, locating my math class quickly and going in. Nobody else is there yet. The teacher looks at me.

“You must be Carter,” he says, and I nod confusedly. “I was told you'd be arriving today and that you need a textbook.” I move farther into the classroom and slide my backpack off of my shoulder, placing it on the desk.

“Are there assigned seats?” I ask my shoes, not looking at the teacher as I am given a large book. I'm actually hoping there are because I have no clue where to sit or who is in my classes. The teacher looks at the classroom and nods.

“I put everyone in alphabetical order by last name, so you should be right… there. You're the last name on the list, Miss Rogers.” As he gives me the good news, he points to a corner seat by the window, and I am almost elated. I sit quickly and pull out my phone to text Emmett. I've decided to send him one text, and then I will not send anymore until he replies, but I write plainly and avoid the glib language we usually speak with for fun.