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As soon as I exit the elevator, another security guard greets me, and I rush for Cammie’s room. Once I’m at her door, I knock once, and she opens.
When I see her, mascara running down her cheeks and her eyes streaked red, my own tears throb behind my eyes. But as I glance down at her arm, I notice she’s holding a towel around her wrist.
Oh, no…
My stomach churns.
She didn’t. Please tell me she didn’t.
I gradually step in, and she backs off, peering down at the floor.
“Cammie… What happened to your arm?”
“Please don’t tell anyone. I—I…I won’t do it again.”
Shit.
My heart lurches.
“Cammie, I can’t keep this to myself.”
How can I not tell her therapist? Jade? Someone?
Because the next time could be worse, and it’d be my fault. I have to convince her to tell someone. To get help.
“Please!” she begs, fat tears running down her cheeks.
“Can we sit somewhere?”
She nods and leads me to the sofa. She settles first, and I sit beside her.
“Are you still bleeding?”
She moves the towel off her arm and looks at her gash. “It’s better now.” Her body sags. “It was so stupid. I’ve never done this before, but…” She bows her head with a tremble in her lower lip. “But when she said those things, I was so angry. I just took a knife, and…andI cut myself.”
She sobs, and I instantly hold her to me. Because I know exactly what this feels like. That pain you can’t get rid of, needing an outlet for it, something to mask it.
“You just needed to control the pain inside you. I get it.”
She perches back and her brows furrow. “Have you ever?”
I nod. I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but if it helps her, then I’m happy to tell her.
“When I first got out, I would burn the insides of my thighs with a lighter. It felt good to have some kind of way to release all the things I was feeling. I didn’t understand why I did what I did, but I knew it felt good, even while it hurt like hell.”
“Do you still…”
“No. My wounds were superficial, and they’re healed now. Then, once I started therapy and told Doctor Collins about it, he helped me manage it.”
“How?”
“He gave me a diary and told me to write what I feel as soon as those thoughts came, no matter how bad they were. At first, I didn’t think it would work, but over time, I did it less and less. Until I stopped altogether.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not a good writer.”
I shrug both shoulders. “You don’t need to be. This is just for you. No one will read it.”
“Maybe I can try it.”
