My heart raced, the anticipation building. Hell, I even felt my face flush. Those dang tiny hairs on my arms hadn’t gone down.
Just once.
Only one time was all I needed to get through tonight.
Liar, liar pants on....
Fire.
I lit the cigarette, smiling as the head turned a reddish-orange. It sizzled. Soon my skin would burn on the outside. Really, it was my insides that would char, so I felt numb.
My friends would be appalled if they knew how I harmed myself. Maddy would cry and try to get me help. She’d lose her mind if I told her I was beyond help.
Because sometimes my emotions took a right turn onCrazy Boulevard.
I blew out a long breath, getting back to it, and hummed, “Dancing with the Devil.” Demi Lovato’s haunting voice filled the cracks in my head. I knew her pain despite our differences. I had battled my own demons since my mother’s death. I called itdeathbut in my heart, I knew the truth. She was murdered…
Fire.
I puffed on the end of the cancer stick, getting it just right as I hummed louder. Whenhisstupidly handsome face appeared, I lowered the burning cig to my skin and hissed as I slowly singed my delicate flesh over and over.
I cried out and banged the back of my head on the wall. “Fuck! Fuck!” Tears streamed down my face as I panted. “Jesus… why?”
The choking scent of Marlboro’s and biting sensations overpowered Luna’s whiny meows. She no longer existed to me. My surroundings turned hazy as if I was doped up… flying high as a kite. The smoke and the stinging encased me, like a familiar cocoon from my childhood.
A childhood I wished was full of rainbows and unicorns. Hugs and kisses. Love and joy.
If only…
But not even close.
Wincing through the discomfort, I clenched my teeth as I hummed. I didn’t hold the cigarette in place long. That was my trick to avoid permanent damage. Dad had caused a few scars scattered around my body before mastering the perfect duration of time and pressure when performing this act.
My therapist called my self-harming “coping tactics.” I did it as a distraction—something to take my mind off my bleeding heart. Not because I wanted to mar my body with burn marks. As sick as it might sound, it was the physical pain I welcomed. I needed it to suppress my over-the-top emotions. To stop them from spreading through my body like acid consuming my flesh.
Humming louder, I closed my eyes to focus on the inflamed spots. They would be raw and tender for a while. The healing process used to take a couple of weeks.
A relieved sigh eddied out of my mouth. I raised the cigarette to my lips and puffed a little for one more hit. I coughed, almost choking. Amateur. This next one went on my stomach.
I lowered the nasty stick and held it against my skin. “Fuck,” I whimpered. It hurt like a bitch, but the severe discomfort never stopped me from hurting myself.
When I was little, I’d stay quiet and out of the way to make Daddy happy. But when he was drunk off his ass and shooting up, angry at the world, I became a martyr. I’d do anything to protect my mom from his wrath. Even suffer through his sick fascination with burning me.
I always knew I’d be in for it when he had his favorite Elton John record playing. He’d lay me out on the coffee table and talk gibberish as he marked me like I was a piece of canvas and he was the next Picasso. After he’d finished creating his masterpiece, he’d kiss my head and send me away.
I rested against the wall, breathing in and out peacefully.
Silence surrounded me. All was now still in my universe.
My demons were satisfied… for a spell anyway. I floated through the smokey air, humming Demi’s song. I hated Daddy for making me like this. For destroying my innocence. For taking out his frustrations on me. For peppering my skin with marks for his sick pleasure. His form ofplaying. It was demented, wrong, and painful. Cruel. If the authorities had found out, I might’ve been saved from the mental scarring left behind.
If only they would have known.
But as much as I despised my father, I missed him. I wasn’t alone back then. I was now.
How messed up was that?
7