Page 15 of #Lovestrong
Lena
Declan's hung around the shop for the last five days since finding out about my cutting, and I'm waiting for him to say something to my grandparents. He promised he wouldn't, but I don't believe him. Just like I don't believe he'll be around if I text him the next time I want to cut myself.
I helped him and Grandma make donuts this morning and despite my constant nerves, it was actually pretty fun. He slipped on a big mess of flour that spilled on the floor and ended up falling and dumping an entire bowl of liquid chocolate on his lap. I think everyone was surprised at how hard I laughed. My ribs hurt by the time I stopped.
As soon as he started unbuttoning his shirt, I made an excuse to come back to the apartment. Keeping my walls up with Declan is hard enough. And when he hugged me the other day, it wasn't easy to ignore how hard his muscles were. I don't need to deal with that right now, so the more distance I can keep with him, the better.
As I flop onto my bed, grabbing the novel I'm reading off the nightstand, my phone buzzes.
*New Text Message: Jazmin*
Why is she texting me? I swipe my finger across the screen to open my inbox and click on her name.
Jazmin: I know we don't talk, but you may want to read this blog. CLICK HERE.
What the hell, man? Seriously?
Not that I care, I click the link anyway. My phone takes a moment to load, but as soon as the blog title hits my screen, my lungs seize up as if someone sucked the oxygen out of my room.
MAGDALENA HARRISON MAY BE ABLE TO FORGET, BUT WE NEVER WILL: A tribute to those who won't be here to share Senior Year 2020.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
The edges of my vision go blurry as I scroll through and read the words posted just this morning. Paragraphs and pictures profiling the twenty-two students shot that day, and more paragraphs linking media outlets with articles that blamed me for Peter's actions. At the end, two paragraphs saying I'd left town to enjoy life elsewhere without having to face the aftermath of the deaths of my friends.
The phone clatters to the floor as I run for the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet as I fall to my knees and vomit my breakfast into the toilet. The room spins and the only thing I feel is coldness creeping through my lungs. It's like the world tilts too far on its axis and sends me spiraling out of control.
Who would post that? Who would assume that? Why?
I stay on my knees but crawl up the sink and open the medicine cabinet to grab my knife off the bottom shelf. My chest hurts with every breath and the click as the knife opens is musical. I grab a towel off the sink and slide down onto the floor, holding the point of the blade to my skin just below the scabbed cut from earlier this week.
As the metal pinches my skin, I close my eyes and a flash of blue and a feeling of warmth overwhelm me. But it's not the blue I usually see when I close my eyes. My lids fly open and the knife clatters to the floor. A small trickle of blood runs down the tiny poke from the tip and as the panic attack sets in, I crawl on my hands and knees to my room and grab my phone off the floor.
Me: Declan?
Declan: Lena? What's up?
Me: I need you.
I set the phone down and curl up in a ball as sobs wrack my body so hard, people in the next county can probably hear me. I can't even find it in me to care. A steady, frantic thud echoes from the hall, but I'm paralyzed in this spot, curled up, holding my knees to my chest, crying so hard it hurts to breath.
I just want the pain to stop. I want it all to stop.
Strong arms wrap around me and roll me over at the same time. Declan pulls me up toward him as he sinks to the floor and cradles me to his chest, my sobs coming even harder. I turn and bury my face in his chest, giving up on trying to control anything as I grip his shirt in my fist.
He cradles my head against him and rocks back and forth, leaning down to kiss the top of my head. "I got you, baby. You're okay. You're okay, I got you."
I'm not okay.
I'm never going to be okay.