Page 12 of #Lovestrong

Lena

I've been here two weeks and I’ve tried to avoid Declan in that time. School starts in two more weeks and, as I’m sitting in the bathroom, pouring peroxide on the two new cuts on my inner thigh, I keep hoping I can avoid him better.

My dad caught me cutting a few weeks after I got out of the hospital after the shooting. He made me see a therapist for a little while, but I promised to stop if I didn't have to go to the therapist. He reluctantly agreed, and I stopped. After that, I also stopped attempting to do anything else.

I learned to deal with the guilt without cutting, as long as there isn’t any added stress. Declan is added stress— a lot of added stress.

I'm helping Grandma and Grandpa at the shop today, mostly because they wouldn't leave me alone until I agreed. But Declan helps them too, and it seems like he helps more since we had lunch the day he took me to get my school stuff.

I can't explain how the cutting helps. I've tried. It just makes me feel better. And it's not like I do it every day or anything, just when things get to be too much. This is only the second time since I've been here. As long as I keep it under control and no one finds out, it won't be an issue.

"Lena, we're heading down. You coming," Grandma asks through my bathroom door.

I press my towel to the cuts one more time and rise from the edge of the tub. "As soon as I'm dressed, I'll be down."

"Okay, honey." Her footsteps clack on the hardwood floor as she walks away.

I take off my towel and hang it up before standing in front of the mirror. In the reflection, I stare at the rough, four-inch scar that blazons my left side. Tears well-up in my eyes as I run my fingers over it. The bullet went through Cameron's back before my side..

I dig my fingers into my side and squeeze my eyes shut as my ears ring with echoing screams. The harder I squeeze my eyes closed, the louder the screams get until my head hurts and my chest tightens so much it's hard to breathe.

"Stop, stop, stop, stop," I whisper, shaking my head back and forth.

It doesn't, and I grab my knife off the tub and sit on the toilet, grabbing my towel off the hook. Laying it across my lap, I put my arm over my legs, palm facing up. My hand shakes as I press the tip into my skin, right below the bend of my elbow. It pinches and tears the skin in a thin line that oozes red as I drag it from one side to the other. I bite my lip and swallow my cry until I lift the small blade.

My breath comes in gasps as relief floods my body, the stinging pain making me feel better momentarily. I throw the knife in the sink and wrap the towel around my arm. Shit. I shouldn't have done my arm. I can hide it though.

I can't go overboard with this. I just need to breathe and focus, and I can get through this year.

And I need to stay the hell away from Declan.