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I’m not just slowly losing my mind—I think I’ve actually lost it.

The knife balances on my knee. I flip it open, and the anticipation is a heady rush. I can’t afford to lose my mind. Not now. Not when tomorrow, I’ll be thrown to the Vipers.

I drag the blade across my wrist and groan.

Why do I feel relief instead of pain? Why do I welcome the blood that doesn’t just well up in beads but runs down the curve of my wrist?

I cup my hand under it before it can drip onto the rug and stain. I watch it, breathing in hard through my nose and out through my mouth. A cord loosens in my chest. The noose around my throat slackens.

This is like meditation, but I can’t look away. I smear the blood toward my hand, examining the cut. It’s a little deeper than the rest.

Maybe.

It could be worse.

If I wanted to kill myself, I would go up. I’d split the vein wide open and the flow would be unstoppable. Cut arteries bleed so much worse than the few veins I slashed.

This is pain management. As in, I’m managing with pain.

When the bite of the cut dims to a dull, pulsing ache, I clean it up. Replace the bandage, then my watch band. It hurts worse with both covering it.

But I can breathe.

I just have to keep breathing.

forty-five

sydney

I can’t keep using my wrist.

Standing naked in front of my mirror, I silently contemplate my body.

I’ve lost weight.

A lot of weight. It’s been a week? The cut from Carter on my breast is almost gone, just a few flakes of scabs that I pick at with my nail. The bruises have faded. The one from Bear on my neck is gone entirely.

I thought the physical remnant finally healing would make me feel better now that there’s not a constant reminder of it. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Now, it all sits inside my chest.

My bag is packed. I just need to pick out an outfit for the plane… preferably something I can just wear to the game. And maybe sleep in. If Dad and Perri hadn’t already seen me in these sweatpants, I would keep them on.

I don’t know if they have plans for Saturday, but I hope I can just hide in my room. I’ll be under parental supervision, so it’s not like I can do anything. I don’t even want to do anything.

All this time, my phone has stayed off. I found it on the charger after my dad and Perri left, but I turned it off without unlocking it. The last thing I need is for all those negative messages to cut me open more.

Speaking of that…

I shift my weight. Considering.

It’s wrong to self-harm. It’s so fucking wrong, but I can’t stop. I’ve become addicted to the release that comes along with it. Sometimes, I’m so out of it, I don’t realize my mind is gone until I’m sitting in the tub dripping blood.

That alone should scare me, but it doesn’t.

Once I’m dressed, I sit on the floor with a roll of paper towels beside me. I fold up the cuff of my leggings. I sit cross-legged and look at the inner ankle of my right leg. The skin is nearly translucent.

This is right.

The first prick of the blade is unexpectedly vivid. I bow forward, my face scrunched. I paint another stroke, slicing into my skin.