Page 29 of Riot Act
I’ve kept myself together. Even when the psychiatrist from upstairs came to assess my mental state at the crack of dawn, I didn’t cry. But the moment the door to my room opens and my father walks in, I’m done for. His face is the color of funeral pyre ash.
“Presley! My god, sweetheart, what the hell have you done?” He rushes to me and takes my hand. I barely even flinch—it’s not as if I can feel much of anything at all right now—but Dad recoils when he sees the thick bandages at my wrists and gingerly places my hand back down on top of the blankets. His hair is brown like Jonah’s. Darker than his son’s. Even when he lived in California, Dad was never really one to sit out in the sun. He’s definitely more of an indoor type; he’d spend his entire life locked away in a kitchen if he could.
There are purple shadows under his eyes now, and a horrified set to his jaw that makes me want to die. He shouldn’t have to see me like this. I wasn’t supposed to cause him this much pain. This wasn’t the plan at all. But…there really wasn’t a plan, was there? There was only the fear, and the pain, and the shame. And the knife.
“Presley,” Dad whispers. “What the hell happened?” He shakes his head, clearly trying to imagine what could possibly have transpired for me to wind up in the hospital with slit wrists. “I know you weren’t happy about the Europe trip, but I didn’t think for a second it wasthisimportant to you—”
“It’s not, Dad.” Fuck, I am so tired. Isoundso tired.
“Then…why? Was it because of the divorce? That…that Mara girl? Why, baby? Talk to me. I couldn’t believe it when they called and told me what…what you’d done. I couldn’t make sense of it. I still can’t make sense of it. I—Is thismyfault? I don’t—” A sob leaps from his mouth, and my heart shatters. I’ve never seen him come undone like this before. Not even when Mom left. The pain in his eyes will haunt me for the rest of my days.
“Dad. Dad, it’s okay. It—” Sighing heavily down my nose, I compose myself. “It wasn’t supposed to be this bad. I just wanted tofeelsomething. I was so numb. And…I guess I just took it a little too far this time.” I whisper the last part. The words arrive laden with guilt. Enough to choke on.
Dad sets his jaw, his eyes flashing with hurt. He flares his nostrils, looking around the room. When he sees the chair tucked away in the recess by the window, he drags it to my bedside, and the scrape of the chair’s legs on the floor is like nails down a chalkboard. When he’s perched himself on the very edge of the chair, elbows leaning on the mattress beside me, he puts his head in his hands and just…breathes.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
He doesn’t look up. “You nearly died, Presley.”
“I know. I—” This is easier, talking to the top of his head, but it still isn’teasy. I want to curl up into a ball and cry. I want to pull the covers over my head and teleport to another fucking dimension. Anything so I don’t have to be here, witnessing my father in such pain.
“I thought you just went back to your room at the academy. I thought—” He laughs bitterly. “Ithoughtyou were sulking about that stupid European trip, and I just assumed that you’d gone back up to the school. I didn’t even check. I should have checked. After what happened to that girl—”
“Dr. Fitzpatrick’s behind bars, Dad.”
He sits up at last, and he looks hollowed out, as if a piece of him—the vibrant, cheerful part of him that had finally begun to show itself again after Mom’s departure for Germany—has been extinguished for good. “I don’t give a shit if he’s behind bars. There are plenty more psychos out there, Pres. I can’t believe I didn’t check on you. I should have—”
“Dad.”
“There’s no way you’re staying up at that school anymore. Not now, after this, and with me living within spitting distance of the place. I’m going to look into transferring you over to Edmondson—”
“DAD!”
“In the meantime, I’ll take you to the academy and I’ll pick you up—"
“You’re beinginsane!”
He stops short, jerking as he looks me dead in the eye. “I’mthe one who’s insane?Me?Iam?”
“I just misjudged the situation. I cut harder than I should have—”
He grabs hold of the thin sheet that’s covering me, exposing my legs. “How long have you been cutting yourself?” he demands. “Howlong?” His quick gaze travels up my bare thighs, scanning my skin.
“What the hell are you doing?” I try to rip the sheet out of his hand and cover myself again, but there’s no way he’s letting go.
“I’m not stupid. You think this is my first time dealing with this? Before this stupid stunt, you haven’t had any other marks on your arms. That leaves your thighs.”
“I don’t cut my thighs!”
“I can see that. What about your stomach? Lift the gown, Presley.”
Ice sluices through my veins, at the same time a blisteringly hot spike of shame colors my cheeks. I grab the hospital gown, bunching it firmly in my hands, pulling it down.
“You’re not going to lift it?” Dad’s breathing so hard, he looks like he’s just run a four-minute mile.
I shake my head.
“All right. Fine. I don’t wanna do this, Pres, but if you can’t be honest with me—” He lunges forward and grabs the gown, and a high-pitched screaming sound starts going off in my head. I wrestle, writhing on the bed, refusing to let go of the gown no matter how hard he pulls.
