When I reach the end of the dock, I gather every ounce of energy I have left and jump, releasing all the oxygen from my lungs until I’m empty of air. Empty of everything. Seconds later, I crash into the water and the cold water floods over my body, drenching my dress, my skin, my hair. It weighs me down, drags me under, and I don’t fight back. I willingly let it take me over.
I remember when I finally realized that my parents weren’t coming back. That they were dead and the blood I saw all over them wasn’t just in my imagination. That the images of them lying on the floor, their bodies still, and their eyes open wasn’t just a picture I’d drawn up in my head. It was real. The reality that I was alone started to seep in and even at six years old I knew that nothing would ever be the same.
I’d never be the same.
It was hard to feel it, the blunt truth that I didn’t have parents anymore. There was a lot of pain. A lot of razors slicing at me from the inside. Needles stabbing at my veins. A hole rapidly growing inside my heart. I felt it—I felt everything. I’d wake up sometimes at night clawing at my skin, trying to dig the feeling out of me, but all I’d ever get were cuts and scratches.
The first couple that took me in thought I was crazy. I heard them talking about it once, that they worried I’d hurt them or myself and why wouldn’t they after what’d I’d seen. Death. Violence. Murder. The morbid part of life—it was branded into my head, which meant I was going to become morbid myself. It confused me and I think I actually started to believe that it might really happen, that I changed into a violent person. Between the idea that I’d end up hurting someone and the constant pain inside me, I decided to give up feeling all together. Turn it off. Shut down. Self-induced numbness.
It was hard at first, especially at night when my mind seemed insistent on remembering everything. But one night when I woke up from a nightmare, panicked and my head a little muddled, I’d gotten confused and thought I was back at my old house. I’d run out of my room, miscalculating where the stairs started and I ended up tripping. I nearly had a heart attack as I fell down the stairs, the carpet scraping at my back and legs, my life flashing before my eyes. When I finally reached the bottom, I stared up at the ceiling feeling the adrenaline pounding through my body and all the pain and fear I’d felt from my dream was replaced by a rush of energy. For a second, I couldn’t feel the razors or needles or the hole in my heart. My mind and body were content. It was the first real moment of peace I’d felt in a while and it was silently and painfully beautiful.
After that, it became a habit. I’d wake up in a panic and run out of my room and fall down the stairs. I was intentionally doing it and I knew it was insane, but it was making me feel better. My foster parents were heavy sleepers and didn’t notice at first, but I did wake them up occasionally. At first I played it off as being sleepy and confused but by the sixth or seventh time they started to wonder if something was up and they started asking questions. So I told them the truth, hoping they’d understand. They looked at me with fear in their eyes and two weeks later I was moved to a new home. After that, I stopped telling the truth and I found different ways to get my adrenaline rushes. Running out in front of cars, standing on top of buildings, letting myself sink into the water until my lungs felt like they were going to combust.
I know what I’m doing is dangerous, but I don’t care. It’s better than feeling the razors. The needles. The unhealable hole in my heart.
The water is cold but not very deep and I reach the bottom quickly. I let myself sink to the ground, my knees pressing against the muddy bottom. My arms float to my side, my hair in my face. Above my head, the moon glows distortedly and beautifully through the ripples in the water. Everything is silent. The water. The night. The emotion inside me. I shut my eyes. I let myself start to drown. I stay as still as I can until my lungs ache to burst. Until I become light-headed. Until I feel myself start to leave reality. Until I’m at the point where I’m about to no longer exist. Then I push upward. Bubbles float from my mouth as I rise, kicking my feet. I stretch my arms up and moments later I burst through the water, gasping for air. Adrenaline is drowning the inside of my body as my lungs fight to breathe—fight to stay alive. Water drips down my hair into my face as I lie back and float in the water, staring up at the moon, my chest rising and falling, up and down, my body half above the water and half below.
Chapter 6
Luke
I was seven when I realized that there was something really wrong with my home environment. It wasn’t something I’d slowly discovered. It was suddenly forced on me when my mother showed up in the middle of the night after being gone somewhere for hours. She was freaking out, chattering about being sorry. I think she was high out of her mind and it looked like there was blood on her hands and clothes, but when I asked her about it—even though I was scared shitless of her answer—she only hugged me for hours, rocking me like a baby, and told me everything was going to be okay. The thing was nothing was ever okay from that point on. It’s still not okay, but livable, as long as I have enough alcohol in my system that the f**ked-up parts of my life don’t feel real. As long as I have control over the things that I do I’m fine. The problem is that lately the control I’ve worked so hard to get is slipping from my fingers.
School ends in a few days and it’s getting close to the day when I should be heading home, back to the hellhole where nothing feels right and I feel like a God damn kid again. Kayden’s already got most of his stuff packed, his side of the room covered in taped-up boxes. He is over at Callie’s dorm helping her out right now and I haven’t even gotten started on my side, the bed still made, my clothes still in the dresser. I’m seriously contemplating lighting it on fire and living in my truck. I haven’t even bothered talking to my father since our last conversation. He’s called a few times, but hasn’t left any messages.
“Look I’m sorry I’m breaking your heart or whatever,” I pace the length of my small dorm room between the two beds with the phone pressed up to my ear, shaking my head at pretty much every word she utters, “But I’m seriously going to stay here.” I’m so full of shit. I officially have nowhere to stay. All the apartments for rent cost too much money. At this point I’ve been searching for a roommate, but I can’t seem to find one. It’s just the wrong time or something and I f**king hate it because I don’t want to go back to my hometown, Star Grove.