Page 27 of Even in the Dark

Juxtapositions are murky. They cause imbalance. And imbalance leads to stumbling, then falling.

So then how has this guy survived like this for so long, through way bulkier obstacles than I’ve ever had to face? When he’s this messy mishmash of juxtapositions? After everything he’s been through, how does he remain so seemingly unaffected? Where are those weaknesses the papers practically screamed from the rooftops at us? The rage and the hurt? The bitterness?

He drops whatever he’s holding, and I can tell from the shape of it now, when it falls virtually flat against the tiles, that it’s a skateboard. Proof that Phil made good on his promise to buy him a new one, which doesn’t surprise me in the least. It was probably the most expensive board the store had in stock, too. Phil would buy Dylan the world if he thought it would make him happy.

He flips the skateboard with the toe of his sneaker a few times, spinning it dizzyingly fast yet so effortlessly it’s clearly second-nature to him. Then he does some equally fast maneuver, where he simultaneously kicks the board up a couple of feet as it spins, then lands on it gracefully with both feet.

I return my attention to the tray on my window seat; dip the tiny brush into the thick coral liquid and start painting the nails of my right hand. Like the skateboarding thing with Dylan, this act is second nature to me. I could polish these bad boys with my eyes closed and still do a passable job. It’s a good skill to have. I’ve marketed myself as the type of girl who gets a manicure at least twice a month.

When I glance up again, Dylan is stationary. Still on his board, but leaning back on his heels, hands shoved deep in his pockets—a dark, razor-sharp silhouette against the soft sunset. More juxtapositions. Almost as if they cling to him wherever he goes.

He stands for a while. It’s a cool evening and I can just make out the mist floating from his lips as he exhales into the Fall air; and the shallow rise and fall of his broad shoulders beneath his dark hoodie. I dip the brush into the polish, wipe the excess off against the rim and glide the brush along my pinky nail in a sleek, glossy stroke. Outside, Mr. Tall Dark and Broody slides off his board. Steps down on one end with the toe of his sneaker so the other end pops up into his waiting palm—all in one smooth, effortless motion.

I glide the polish along the remaining nails on my right hand. When I glance up again, Dylan is stalking further down the patio, approaching the sunken stone steps that lead down to the lower grassed terrace. He drops his board onto the lawn, then descends the steps, stopping to sit on the lowest one. Not facing forward, but sideways, with his back against the side of the sunken steps. His knees are bent, his body parallel to the horizon, staring out at… the trees, maybe?

He stays like that for a long time. Long enough that I finish all the nails on my left hand. And he’s still in the same position when I loosely cap the polish, placing the bottle on the corner of the tray. His breathing looks like it’s slowed back to normal. He shifts, and I assume he’s about to get up and go back inside. Maybe retrieve his skateboard and do a few more tricks or something.

Instead, he raises his lower body, lifting his butt off the ground to allow easier access for his hand to shove into his right pocket. He pulls it out, clutching something small I can’t make out, then lowers his butt back to that same sitting position. Then, with aflick of his wrist, something long flips out of the far end, glinting silver beneath the sun’s setting rays.

A knife.He’s holding some kind of switchblade.

No way his dad knows about that. Or Diane. Or anyone. He looks off into the distance again, the blade still clutched loosely in the hand he’s resting against his right knee.

Another five minutes pass.

He dips his head, lifts his hand off his knee, then pushes up the sleeve of his opposite arm, knife still casually fisted, like its grip is familiar. Like it’s an extension of his hand. He’s wearing a thick hoodie, so the bunched-up sleeve is bulky around his upper arm. Then he brings the switchblade up to his bare forearm, almost parallel to his limb… and drags the blade smoothly across his flesh in a long, steady line.

I jolt back, inhaling a choked gasp, knocking my knee against the wall beneath the window. When I glance down, a widening circle of coral polish is pooling by my right toe on the tray. I rip a couple of tissues from the box by my thigh and frantically blot up the mess, returning the brush into the tiny bottle. I shove the tray and its mound of coral-soaked tissues aside as I slash my gaze back to the window and the sunset-lit steps.

He’s doing it again—dragging the blade across his skin in a way that is eerily calm. And steady. And almost practiced. Like he’s done this a hundred times before—cut himself like this, with a freakin’ switchblade.

This is—Shit.This is bad.

My body leans instinctively closer to the glass. Even from here, I can see the dark well of blood beginning to seep from the incisions, trailing along his forearm toward his elbow.

I glance around frantically—for what, exactly, I’m not sure. The contents of my stomach threaten to come back up and I lurch to my feet. Rush towards the door. Then stop halfway there. Whirl around and rush back to the window.

I lean in and peer back outside.

He’s doing it again.

Shitshitshit.

I expected punching and kicking and lashing out at other people. I was prepared for something like that. Not okay with it, but prepared. Expecting it, at least. But this—harminghimself…I wasn’t prepared for this at all.

Outside, Dylan is leaning over now, wiping the side of the blade along the grass, twice on each side. He flips it shut. Still so calm and controlled. He lets the blade fall beside him against the stone step… stretches his blood-striped arm out to the side, resting it against the grass beside him, basically at shoulder height. Then he drops his head back, too. His eyelids shutter closed, and he inhales… then exhales, his body visibly relaxing. He lowers his knees, stretching his long legs out in front of him along the length of the step he’s sitting on, his limbs limp now, and so very, very still. The scene is similar to how I imagine a heroin addict looking right after shooting up. And it’s horrible… that this is what appears to have relaxed him for the first time since landing in Sandy Haven—that it’s the most at peace I’ve seen him by far.

I pull away from the window again. I don’t know what to do. Should I do something? Or is this none of my business?

But what if he’s bleeding out right now? I don’t know how that works; if that’s something that can happen from the kind of cuts he was inflicting.

God, I can’t imagine telling Philip about this, though. He would be gutted if he knew Dylan was doing this to himself. The boy he lost fourteen years ago, who he already feels so much guilt over—who he is doing everything within his power to heal from the wounds of a horrible past he already feels responsible for. I don’t think he could bear this, on top of everything else. Hethinks his son is finally safe and out of harm’s way now that he’s home, under his roof. I can’t take that away, too.

Out on the steps, Dylan shuffles. Lifts his head.

He’s okay…

Right? It’s bad. But he’s okay.

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