Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
“I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer. Watching you drown in your own misery. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be wishing it had been you that died that night and not my sister.” A lump forms in my throat, and instantly, I’m drawn back into that memory.
Her lifeless body hanging there, vacant eyes, a future that she never got to have because of me. I was a killer. It was my choice to drive that night. I killed her. Killed us.
Squeezing my neck hard enough to leave bruises, he releases me with a shove, and I force a ragged breath into my lungs, not even realizing I was holding my breath.
“I’m expecting those papers to be done within the next three weeks,” Mrs. Jarrid exclaims from the podium at the front of the room. Like stepping too close to the sun, I can feel the heat of Jackson at my back, and I have to get away, get out of this room, get to my apartment, and release my emotions.
Standing abruptly, I bump my legs against the table, making a commotion as I shove my stuff into my bag. I know people are watching me, staring, but I don’t care.
“Where are you going, killer?” Jackson taunts, but I ignore him. My shoe catches on the side of the table as I rush out of the room, but I steady myself before I eat dirt. I don’t dare look over my shoulder. I don’t want to see his sadistic grin or dark gaze that was once the one thing I looked forward to every day. I don’t want to remember that he used to be my world.
I want to forget.
Escaping the room, I rush down the hall and burst through the double doors. The sun kisses my skin, and the air blows through my hair. I’m alive, but am I living? The thought comes from nowhere, and I push it away. I can’t get my feet to move fast enough, and each step to my apartment feels like an eternity, my shoes weighed down with bricks.
A group of girls rush past me on the sidewalk, they’re laughing and talking amongst themselves. Like normal college girls. I keep my head down and focus on the cracks in the sidewalk for the rest of the way to my small apartment. It’s only a short walk to campus, and I got this by design. I didn’t want to live in the dorms close to people, but I didn’t want to live so far away that I couldn’t walk. Since driving is out of the question for me.
Even if I hadn’t lost my driver’s license after the accident, I wouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel again. I don’t think I will ever be able to drive again, I can barely stand riding in a car in general. I’ve only gotten in a car with my parents since the accident, and I don’t see that changing in the future.
I sigh when I finally reach my apartment and retrieve my keys from my pocket with a shaking hand. Relief is so close, close enough that I can almost taste it. Unlocking the door, I hurry inside and close it behind me before clicking the lock back into place. I deposit my stuff on the floor and rush into the bathroom.
My hands are shaking with anticipation as I pull my pants down and step out of them. I open the medicine cabinet and grab the tiny box where I keep the razor blades. With trembling fingers, I grab one and put the rest on the counter.
Sinking to the floor with my back against the tub, I look down at my thighs. There are countless scars that decorate my skin. Most are so tiny they are barely noticeable; some are bigger, and others are still red, raised, and healing.
I don’t exactly know why I started doing this, but one day, I felt the need to do it. It started with nothing more than pushing the blade into my skin and later turned to deeper cuts. The rational part of me knows it’s wrong to do this, but it’s my one reprieve, for one second, I feel nothing, not shame or guilt, or fear. I might not know why I began, but I know that somewhere along the way, it morphed into something else… an addiction.
The one thing that helps me get through each day.
Holding the razor blade between my fingers, I bring it to a spot of unblemished skin and slide it across, watching as the skin separates.
Blood starts to pool along the blade, and my hand stops shaking, a euphoric feeling washes over me. The pressure on my chest is released, and suddenly, I can breathe again. Air enters my lungs rapidly as I suck in a deep breath and push the blade into my skin just a tiny bit deeper. Every time I do this, it becomes a little harder not to cut deeper, to stop myself from sinking the blade as deep as I can.