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“That’s morbid, Snitch.”
I shrug, continuing to work. We stay in silence as I work, and he smokes. It’s not comfortable, the atmosphere charged in heat and energy, curling in the bottom of my stomach. It is not weird, though. I find that I like his eyes on me. Which should have been the first clue that something was wrong with me.
“You didn’t answer me,” he mumbles around his joint.
“Hmm? I’m sorry. I forgot what you asked.” I paint the eyes in a light gray. They look like normal eyes but if you’re really looking, you’ll see chains.
“Was that Axel King’s motorcycle in your driveway today?” His words are calm but the energy, it’s tense.
“Oh, yeah, it was.” I add dark gray for shading to the chains.
“Something going on between the two of you?” he asks with a bite to his voice. I snort, turning around to face him. I’m always caught off guard with his looks. His beautiful face. His hazel eyes that are more mossy green with honey and brown swirls. His lips, the bottom plumper than the top. His strong nose. He’s unruly brown hair. It’s chestnut brown and thick. I wish I could remember the exact feeling of running my hands through it last night.
“There’s nothing going on between us. We’re just friends.” I look into his eyes, and they hold me captivated. I don’t see the anger that I usually get. Today they are light and hold curiosity. He curses under his breath, taking a step forward. I hold up my hand. “Please, don’t,” I whisper.
Never one to listen, he takes another step forward. I scoot off my chair and begin running. Because everything about Easton McKnight scares me. The way he makes my heart beat. The way his body pulls mine in. Even the way he bullies me sets my body on fire.
As a child, I always had the biggest crush on him, but he’d never have anything to do with me. I wanted the friendship Monroe and Nixon had, but with Easton. And as we grew older, I realized I was the nerd and he was the jock, and it didn’t matter that our lives were mapped around one another’s—it would never work. Because society says there are rules. And girls like me don’t get princes like Easton.
I run around my house, climbing in my car. I always leave my keys in it because there is no way anyone is going to steal my car in this neighborhood. I start it up, peeling out of the driveway like I am Ezra. I look in my rearview mirror, seeing Easton with his hands on his hips in the middle of the road, staring after me.
It was easier when he bullied me.
* * *
Unknown: Tick-tock.
Throwing my phone into my purse, I make my way to Doctor Shackler’s office. He’s sitting at his desk with his first two buttons undone. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms. Thinking your therapist is hot is not a good idea. But he is the best and I've been seeing him since I turned fourteen. He is comfortable.
“Jasmine, please have a seat.”
I sit on the couch, staring at the strange picture on the wall. It’s a dark forest, shaded in blacks and grays, dead trees weeping over a girl who is curled up into a ball on the ground, covered in dirty dead leaves. She has long black hair like my own, draped over a ripped white dress. Her hair shields her face. Gray gloomy skies cast in a swirl of black. Honestly, the painting is morbid and that's why I always feel a pull to it.
“What would you like to talk about today?” The voice snaps me out of my strange fixation.
I sigh, knowing this can go one of two ways. One, he listens. Two, he locks my crazy butt up. Grippy socks and all. “I’ve been…” The words taste like acid on my tongue, burning with every syllable. “Cutting.”
He raises an eyebrow, jotting stuff down on his notepad. “Where?”
“Inner thighs.” Scribble.
“Why?”
“Because it’s where I’m tainted.” Scribble.
“Because you were raped?”
“Yes.” Shame coats my words as I look to my feet.
“And when you cut, what do you feel?” Nothing.
“I feel… out of it? Like, I don’t actually remember doing it but I obviously am. It’s like I’m on autopilot most of the time, then others, I know exactly what I’m doing, but still, I feel nothing.” Sometimes I don’t remember any of the cutting. I just know—I have a knife in my hand, and blood caked to my thighs.
“Elaborate, please.”
“So, I think about doing it. I grab the knife. I position it at my thigh, and then… nothing.”
He writes more words down. “Do you mind showing me?”
