Page 1 of Irrevocably

Prologue

Pain is nature’s way of letting you know that you’re alive, that’s what I’ve always believed. Doesn’t really matter what kind of pain – it’s all one in the end – but it grounds you. Holds you in the present. Makes you aware of your own existence, and the miracle of it.

Pain concentrates everything, sharpens everything. It’s like when you’re touching up a photo with a filter, and you turn everything that was blurry and fuzzy into crisp, high definition.

Pain is a forest fire sweeping through you, leaving nothing but silence and softly falling ashes in its wake.

Pain is a teacher, and the lesson isn’t to escape it, it’s to embrace it.

Pain is the blade of a knife against my skin, and the blood that wells up when I cut.

Pain is absence.

Pain is a killer walking away into the darkness.

Leaving me alone.

Chapter One

ASTRID

Gripping my phone tightly in my hand, I avoid the crowds of students and duck into the ladies’ bathroom. There’s no one in it, thank God, but I take the free stall at the end of the row all the same.

I lock the door, flip the lid of the toilet down and sit on it. Then I take a few deep breaths before looking down at my phone again. I must have misread it, surely.

The screen glows in the dimness of the bathroom stall as I glance down to check my biochemistry grade again. No, I didn’t misread it. I got a B Plus.

There’s a balloon in my chest, slowly inflating, pressing against my ribs, against my lungs, against my heart. Making it so I can’t breathe.

B Plus. It’s not enough. I have to get an A at the very least.

Tears prick at the backs of my eyes, but I blink them back, furious with myself. Lots of people would be thrilled to get a B Plus, so why the fuck am I crying about it? Then again, most people aren’t trying to get into one of the country’s most prestigious med schools, where you need an A average to even get an interview.

The balloon keeps inflating, my anxiety building to an unbearable pressure. I need to talk to Professor Bright, ask her if I can redo the assignment. I don’t really have the time, what with all the other assignments I have due, but I need to do something.

I was the one who decided to follow in my mom’s footsteps and apply for the same med school that she was studying at when she died, and I’m the one putting pressure on myself to get in. Dad doesn’t care what I do, but then, he hasn’t cared for a long time, so the only one I’m performing for is myself.

Maybe I’m crazy to believe I could do this.

Maybe I’m crazy to believe I could ever be as brilliant as she was.

My backpack is on the floor beside me, and before I can think better of it, I’m reaching for the zip on the front pocket and pulling it open. Taking out the small knife I keep there. It’s been freshly sharpened, so I know the cut will be clean and neat.

I try not to do this on campus. It makes me feel like a failure when I do, but I have to get rid of my anxiety somehow since I have a full day of classes and my shelving shift at the library to get through.

Carefully, I pull up the sleeve of my sweatshirt, exposing my wrist. My hand used to shake the first few times I tried cutting, but it doesn’t anymore.

I draw the blade across my wrist, the pain sharp and clean and bright, and the balloon in my chest slowly deflates, the pressure easing as a line of blood wells.

No, it’s fine. I can do this. I’ll see Professor Bright, explain the situation to her, and ask her how I can pull up my average. I’m one of her favourite students, and she likes a hard worker, which I am.

I sit there a moment, letting the pain wash away my fear and my doubt, staring at the blood trailing over my skin. There are a few faint scars there already, pearly lines that tell a story about this bad little habit of mine.

My dad doesn’t know I do this. No one knows I do this. It’s my secret, and maybe it’s fucked up, but cutting is better than drugs or alcohol, and it’s certainly cheaper. All you need is one sharp knife.

The pain becomes a dull ache, and I grab some toilet paper from the roll, and press it over the cut. A few seconds later, I take it away, check to make sure the blood has clotted, then pull my sweatshirt sleeve back down again so the cuff covers my wrist. I carefully clean the blade of my knife, tuck it away in my backpack, then check the time on my phone.

Fuck. If I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late for English and I really hate being late.