Skye jumps when she sees me and tosses something away from her. “Jesus, don’t you knock?” she shrieks. She tugs at the waistband of her pants, trying to get them back in place.
I squint my eyes at her. Her face is flushed, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” I say.
“You’re forgiven,” she blurts.
My steps shuffle on the carpet as I step further into the room. I sit next to her, and the bed sinks beneath my weight. She glances at me, then away. We continue this game for a few minutes. She fidgets, toying with her hands in her lap.
“What’s the matter with you?” I ask, grabbing her wrists and examining her hands.
Nothing seems out of the ordinary on her soft, pale skin. She leans away from me, and I spot a dark red stain on the front of her pants.
“Are you bleeding?”
“What?” She looks around at her arms. “No.”
“Yes, you are. Stand up.”
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”
“No, it’s definitely something. Stand up.”
She ignores me, shaking her head again as she pulls the sheet over her lap.
“Stand up, Skye!”
I rip the sheet away and reach for her arm. She flails her arms and legs, kneeing me in the damn groin. I blow air through my lips as I fight her, pinning her arms against her body. I hook my fingers into the waistband of her pants and pull the fabric down.
“No!” she pleads as I expose a cut on her hip. The iron tang of blood hits the air. “No!” she cries again.
My mouth drops open at the sight of her cut-up flesh. Flashes of blood, violence, and war run through my mind, but I have to ignore them. Skye needs me.
“Please,” she whispers. She feels so small in my grasp.
“What is this? What happened?” I ask her.
She starts to cry. “I don’t know.”
“Yes you do. Stop fucking around.” My annoyance with her actions unintentionally filters through my voice.
I pull off my shirt and hold it to her wound. Fresh blood drips down her side. I straddle her legs, keeping her pinned beneath me as I put my weight on the shirt. Tears form and fall over her blotchy cheeks. Her breath hitches as she tries to stifle a deeper cry, so I wrap my other arm around her neck and pull her into me. She clutches my back, buries her head against my chest, and sobs. I hold her for a few minutes, letting her cry.
“Come on, Skye. Stand up.”
Still holding the shirt to her hip, I climb off her and grab her hand to lift her tired body. I look up at her as I kneel at her feet. With a few quick dabs at her skin, I pull the bloody shirt away. The bleeding has stopped, and the cut is clearer. It’s a clean, horizontal gash beneath her hip bone.
“What did you do?” I run my finger along the scars surrounding the fresh wound. Hardened tissue in similar, near-perfect lines. She flinches against my touch.
“Please don’t send me away,” she says through a fresh shudder of sobs. Her chest rises and falls. She looks so afraid.
“Did you do this to yourself?” I ask as I rise to my feet.
She flashes her glassy and swollen eyes at me before nodding.
“Why? Why would you do this?” My hand grazes her hip, avoiding the fresh cut. My fingers walk over her scars as if they’re braille. I can read the pain etched in her flesh.
“I don’t know,” she says with a sniffle.
She does. Of course she knows.
“Is it because of me?” I grab her chin and force her eyes to mine.
“I don’t—”
“Don’t say you don’t know. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me.”
Skye sits on the bed and drops her face into her hands. “You’re going to send me to a psych ward if I tell you.”
“No I won’t.” I wouldn’t. At least, I don’t think I would.
She shakes her head. “I haven’t told anyone about . . . what I do.”
“That ends tonight.”
The ticking clock frustrates me, but I can’t push her. She’ll close me out again. I know.
She finally speaks. “When I’m really upset, I—” She takes a deep breath. “I cut myself to feel better. It’s like a release. Now you probably think I’m even more fucked up than you thought.” Her words rush from her lips.
I sit beside her and draw her into me. “I don’t think that, Skye. When I’m upset, I drink for a similar release. It’s just another vice.” I pull away from her and hold her shoulders. “But this can’t happen.” I gesture toward her blood-stained hip. “This cannot happen.” I pull her back into me. “No more,” I say into the top of her head.
Telling her to stop won’t make her stop. It never worked for my vice. So many people have told me to quit. That I'm hurting myself. I’m not naïve, though. She probably won’t listen to me, but I’m going to make it real fucking hard for her to do it without me knowing.
I’ll protect her, even if it’s from herself.