Page 53 of This Life and All the Rest
I laugh. “Goodbye, Samantha.”
The moment Sam is out of sight, I walk back to my room, lock the door, and pull the vodka bottle out from under my bed. I unscrew the top and take a drink, wincing as it goes down.
Doesn’t matter how much I drink, it doesn’t taste any better.
I take a few breaths, then swallow some more, this time letting my eyes and throat burn. I drink until I feel dizzy, then I put the bottle away and strip out of my clothes.
I stand naked in front of my mirror, studying my body. I run my hands down my sides, flattening them over my belly.
I hate this body.
It doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
It feels like a traitor. It’s betrayed me along with everyone else.
Just once in my fucking life, I’d like to have control over something. I’d like to have a say in what happens to me.Good, politeLennon Washington.Go with the flowLennon Washington.
I followed every rule. I did exactly what I was supposed to. And what did it get me?
I pinch the skin at my stomach again, digging my nails in until they leave red, half-moon cuts. I drag my nails back up my torso and cup my breasts. I twist my freshly pierced nipples until they start to bleed, tears springing to my eyes. I cross my arms over my chest and grip the fleshy part of my biceps, sinking my nails into the skin until it hurts, leaving half-moons to match the ones on my stomach.
I know that the way I’m feeling isn’tnormal.
I might be depressed. According to the internet, I am. Aunt Becca got me the business card of a therapist, but I threw it away. Sam fished it out of the trash, so I burned it.
I don’t need another person telling me what to do and how to feel.
I might be sick. Something might be wrong inside me, but I might also just be fed up with everything. Maybe I’ve stopped giving a fuck. Maybe I had to so I could save myself.
Maybe I’m not saving myself at all.
Part of me wonders if I’m starting to become my mom, but I don’t actually care about any of it. I don’t want to care about anything.
Tears trickle down my face, and they piss me off. I swipe them away angrily.
I want to feel something other than sorrow. I want to feel something other than this hollow, paralyzing ache. I want to feel nothing.
I can’t get rid of Macon’s voice. I can’t stop feeling his hands on me. At night, when I’m hovering just above sleep, I see visions of what was, what could have been.
Astraea. Sweet, sweet Lennon Capri.
You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.
My heart races, and my panic rises as flashbacks assault me.
I close my eyes and see myself on the bathroom floor. I feel pain, sharp and deep, shooting through my body. I see Sam holding me in the backseat of the car, Aunt Becca cursing at other drivers from behind the wheel.
I hear people talking at me, pitying me. Pamphlets and advice and bullshit words meant to console me. Meant to soothe me.
And then, I feel empty.
I try to hold on to that feeling—the feeling of nothing, emptiness, oblivion—but it’s yanked away, and replaced by unruly curls and piercing blue eyes.
I hate him. I hate him.
I love him.
I shake my head. I try to get rid of him, but he just won’t go away. None of it will.
