She nods, and I can see it in her eyes—she understands.
“So anyway,” I continue, “that night there I was, alone in the hotel suite, and my girlfriend’s message came in. Right there on the table next to the remains of the pizza was the knife they’d brought up for me to cut it with. Just sitting there, shiny, the edge looking sharp as hell. I… picked it up and went into the bathroom.” I pause, deciding she doesn’t need the details. “I bled. A lot. More than I expected. I wasn’t trying to kill myself—not then—but I cut too deep and hit a vein. I was terrified, but too embarrassed to call anyone, so I just held pressure on it until it stopped.”
“When the panic settled, my head went quiet. For the first time in my life. No noise, no thoughts I didn’t want. It felt… good.”
I let out a breath. “That’s where it started. I told myself I’d never do it again, but… yeah. That didn’t stick.” I turn my wrist so she can see. “Whenever things built up too much, I used it as an outlet. Trust me, I get what it’s like when everything piles up and has nowhere to go. Eventually it comes out. Panic attacks, whatever.”
Her mouth opens slightly, her voice rough with emotion. “How did you stop?”
“Uh-uh. That’s cheating.” I wink. “I’m not giving you everything for free. Now it’s your turn—you have to tell me your scar story.”
She shuts down a little, pulling back from the vulnerability she’d been leaning into.
But I wait.
“It’s really not that big of a deal.” She shakes her head, picking at the barely visible hairs on her legs. “My parents hatedit when I made noise. Or fussed. Or complained. I learned to make myself small. Quiet.”
“Were they always around?”
“Yeah. Even when I didn’t want them to be. They hated each other, but they stayed married anyway. My dad worked construction, and he was every bad stereotype you can imagine. Catcalling underage girls, yelling obscene shit, getting into fights on a Friday night… just a complete asshole. You have no idea how embarrassing that is.” She sighs. “He couldn’t stand me. I looked just like my mother, who he hated, so I think he hated me because I reminded him of her. Funny thing is, my mom saw me as a constant reminder of her marriage to him, and kind of a millstone around her neck, so she couldn’t stand me either.”
“They hated each other, but stayed together?”
“Funny, isn’t it?” She gives a humorless laugh. “They were both deeply Catholic, so divorce wasn’t an option. Just hating each other until death did them part.”
“Oh. That type.”
“Yeah. Whenever they were home, I tried to disappear. If I had a bad day or got bullied, I learned to keep it to myself. If I said anything, they’d only make it worse.” She rubs her palms over her leggings, staring out at the parking lot. “If I needed money, I had to work for it or beg for it. Even basic stuff. I didn’t get a phone until I was sixteen. Started working at fifteen because I was sick of asking for things like shoes, and sometimes… if I mouthed off too much, I’d get smacked.”
My hands clench into fists. Rage flares in my chest, hot and immediate.
I expected her story to be dark. I didn’t expect it to be like this.
“No one helped you?” I ask, my voice lower, harder than before.
She shakes her head. “No. A few neighbors knew what was going on, but none of them cared enough to do anything. Or maybe they thought I’d be worse off if they did, which… I don’t blame them for. I thought the same thing.” She twists her lips in a sad smile. “When I was seventeen, I left. Packed a bag and moved to a different town. Dropped out, got my GED. I wanted to save for college, so I worked nonstop. Places I probably shouldn’t have been—dive bars, stuff like that.”
She pauses, staring out at the forest. I wonder what she’s thinking, but mostly I just watch her.
The sunlight catches in her hair, turning it gold. Her gaze glints, and there’s the faintest hint of a dimple at the corner of her mouth.
She’s been through hell and still looks like something untouched by it.
How can someone so soft-looking be this strong?
I wait, giving her space.
“And?” I prompt after a moment. “Where’d you go just now?”
She blinks, shaking her head. “Sorry. Anyway, I didn’t see my parents again for a while. Not until I started my physical therapy program. Then my dad showed up. Said my mom was sick and wanted me to come home and take care of her. Tried to guilt me into it.”
“But it didn’t work, right?” I don’t want her anywhere near those people again.
“It almost did,” she admits. “That Catholic guilt sticks with you. You’d be surprised how hard it is to break that sense of family loyalty, even when your parents were… like mine.” She exhales. “I’d been away long enough that the worst of it had faded. It’s easier to remember the good when you’re not living in it anymore. Hearing your parent is dying… I didn’t like her, but I didn’t want her to die. I felt like I owed her something.”
“So you went back?”
“No. A friend talked me out of it.” A soft smile touches her lips. “Knocked some sense into me. Sent my dad packing. It got a little… heated.”