Page 136 of Ink Me Three Times
My legs move. My lungs work. I guess that means I’m alive.
But everything else?
Numb.
I wonder if anyone can see it. The ruin under my skin. If some stranger driving past looks at me and thinks,that girl is falling apart.Or if I just look like everyone else, pretending they’re whole.
The air clings to my skin, salt slick and cold. Cars pass by, but I don’t hear engines. Just this high-pitched static in my skull. The sky is too blue, the pavement too bright, everything feels sharp edged and unreal, I’m walking through a movie set I can’t leave.
Pickle trails behind me, leash dragging through the dust. Even he’s quiet. He knows not to ask for anything right now. He knows I’m breaking.
Mitchell’s voice is still in my head.
Have you thought about what people are gonna say?
There’s this shop in Portland.
A clean break.
It plays on loop. Over and over. Every syllable is glass in my chest.
I keep thinking maybe I misheard. Maybe he didn’t mean it in that way. But my brain replays his tone, that flat finality, and my stomach flips over itself.
I wanted him to say anything else. Even “I’m not ready.” Even “I’m scared.” Just… not that. Not leaving. Not gone.
I fumble with the front door, barely get it shut before the first sob tears out of me.
It’s ugly. Loud.
I bolt for the hallway, take the stairs two at a time, and lock myself in the bathroom before anyone can see.
And then I break.
Not the dramatic, slow tear kind of break.
No.
This is raw.
It rips out of me with every breath I didn’t even know I was holding. Sobs I’ve swallowed for weeks, fears I kept shoved down, thinking if I ignored them hard enough, they’d disappear.
My ribs ache with every sob. My throat burns. My hands won’t stop shaking, clawing at my sleeves, like I could rip the hurt out if I just tried hard enough.
I curl up on the floor, tile cold against my skin.
My arms around my knees.
My head buried.
I don’t even try to be quiet.
A picture flashes behind my eyelids. That fuzzy black and white scan, three little beans lined up as a promise. I clutch my stomach tighter, like maybe I can hold them in place, keep them safe from my chaos.
I thought I was ready for this.
I thought I was braced for panic. Judgment.
For someone to say, “this isn’t mine” or “I don’t know what to do.”
