I want to scream.
....
I'm laying on the hard floor, staring at the bumpy white ceiling. Around me everything is silent, but the noise is still building in my head. I want to get up and smash my arms into the doorway until it stops.
Instead I move my legs across the wood floor. Back and forth. Back and forth.
"What are you doing?" He asks curiously from the couch.
"Making a snow angel." I say numbly.
....
I start with two sleeping pills. Then I take three. Then four.
I wake up at four o'clock in the morning, pain stabbing through my head.
Guess what? You're still alive.
....
How are you?
Do you want to talk?
How do you feel?
How do you feel?
How do you feel?
....
I meet Bill for tea. He's moving to Iowa in two days. The tea shop is loud. We are both swallowed up in the noise. I want to tell him that I can't cry. I haven't cried since I left the hospital. It's been two months, and I can't cry.
But there's too much noise.
"Jasmine." He says in his soft Texas drawl. This is not my name, but it is his name for me and I don't mind. "I've missed you."
"I've missed you too." I whisper back.
He mirrors the sad smile on my own face, and we silently sip our tea as the world moves brightly around us.
....
Bruises bloom dark and loud on my pale arms. I hide them beneath long sleeves and sweaters.
I know what people would think if they saw.
"Did you see her arms?" They would whisper. "Do you think he's hitting her?"
Side glances. Raised eyebrows. Sickly sweet concern.
I know the truth would sound crazy. Because I am crazy.
....
My mother keeps texting me about that damn skirt. She wants numbers. Inches.
She wants to know.
I pretend I am somewhere else, someone else.
She finally texts the Mr. She tells him she's worried about me. I'm not responding. Is everything ok?
He reads me her message. I'm laying on the floor again.
"I don't know how many inches!" I shout at the ceiling.
He tells her I'm ok.
....
There is a strange scab on my cheekbone. I pick at it, trying to get it off. My skin starts to turn red, but I don't feel anything. It won't come off. I press harder. Blood vessels rise to the surface, tiny red pin pricks. I don't feel anything. My fingernail breaks through my skin, peeling it back.
I don't feel anything.
I stare at my reflection. What am I underneath this skin? What if I just peeled it all off? What would I find?
I blink, and my stomach lurches. I slam my hand down on the light switch and my reflection vanishes into the darkness.
....
We lay on the couch, curled up together as the morning sun creeps through the blinds. He breathes under my cheek, deep and even.
Everything is quiet.
I am ok.
I stare at the clock and try to will time to stand still. I am ok in this moment, this second. I am ok, and I want to keep it. I want to keep it forever. I focus on the minute hand until my eyes burn.
It ticks forward.
Guess what? You're still alive.
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