“Barely breathing. It’s the line fromBreakeven. It means something to you.”
“It does. I told you it was my parents’ favourite song, but this phrase means more to me.”
“Because you’re barely breathing.”
He understood. He’d known me for less than two weeks, and he knew.
“Most days, yes. I have good and bad, but on the bad, it’s hard to control the urges.”
“But your therapist helps.”
“She does. They all have. I’ve been in therapy since I was fourteen. Mum noticed the blood in the bathroom one day. I’d hidden it from them for a year before they found out.”
“What did they do?”
“Doctors, therapists, medication. They tried it all. I played along, pretended it was working, that the urges had passed. By then, I was cutting in places they couldn’t see. One day, I cut an inch above the base of my dick. I bled so much I thought I was going to fucking die. I don’t know why I did that.”
I did, but I wasn’t about to tell Killian. Imagine trying not to get a hard-on when you were a teenage boy. I might not have wanted to be gay, but I had urges and hormones the same as any other. I hated that I had them, and only over the past few years had I realised it was a normal function, not related to my feelings.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Harvey. What about now?”
That was the question. How did I feel now?
“I manage. It’s been a while since I’ve cut myself. I’ve used art as a distraction.”
“You design your own tattoos.”
“I do. Drawing takes me out of my head. I’m concentrating on the image in front of me, building layer upon layer of pencil,charcoal, paint. Whatever I’m using right then. It focuses my mind.”
“I’d love to see some of your drawings. I bet they’re fantastic.”
I huffed out a small laugh. “I don’t know about that. It’s something I do to keep myself sane. I’m not a professional. It’s just a hobby.”
My stomach grumbled, reminding me I’d eaten next to nothing all day.
“You should go get some dinner. I’ll clean up.” He stood and cleared the table.
“No, it’s fine. I can do it.”
“I wouldn’t be a very good guest if I left you to it, now, would I?”
“Killian.”
“You look dead on your feet. Eat something, relax for a minute, and let me take care of it. I think it’s been a while since someone has done that.”
He wasn’t wrong, and as much as I wanted to argue with him, I didn’t have the energy to do so.
I followed him into the kitchen to see him put the plate of pie in the microwave. He filled the sink with hot water and threw in some dishes.
“I’ll leave them to soak awhile. For the love of all that is holy, sit down, Harvey. Let someone else do the hard work for a change.”
Sheepishly, I walked back to the table and sat down.
Killian’s voice reached me above the clatter in the kitchen. How could it affect me the way it did? I was never one for music, usually. I’d shied away from it after Mum had died. She played the songs that reminded her of Dad on repeat until I couldn’t bear to listen to them anymore. They brought her comfort, though, in the days, months, and years after his passing. Now, I preferred silence. Until I heard him sing.
I closed my eyes and listened with rapt attention. The lyrics of the song were unknown to me, although I recognised the melody.
The voice grew louder, and then he was there, putting a plate of steaming food in front of me.