CHAPTER TEN

[CLAY]

I scratch my head, searching for something to say. Skye lets out a cold laugh at my hesitance.

"God, I almost forgot how completely," she paused for a second, and cleared her throat, "—awkward you are. Come on in," she ended with a sly smile. She moved to the side, allowing me some room to step inside of her house.

"Don't worry," she let out throatily as she shut the door behind me, "my dad's too busy on a business trip to fucking Florida to give a shit what I do anymore." She put her hand up into the air, wiggling her fingers a little and exposing what she had sitting between her index and middle finger: a joint. Oh god.

Wait. This could be good, right? If she's high, maybe she'll be more open to talking. More honest. And probably way less likely to freak the fuck out about all of this. Perfect.

I'm snapped out of my thoughts by her hand waving frantically in my face. "I said," she emphasizes dramatically, "do you want to try some? You know, change your goody-two-shoes image for once? It's not so bad, I promise."

"Uh no, but—thanks?" I answer in almost a question. I have no idea how to interact with high Skye. I try to steer the conversation away from her awkward invitation, adding, "I actually came by to talk to you about something. It's kind of important," I finish strongly, hoping she can realize that I'm trying to be serious.

She cocks her head. Wordlessly, she quickly turns around and motions for me to follow her. She takes a few puffs from between her fingers as we're walking; I try to avoid breathing in the smoke before she disposes of the joint all together.

She plops down on the couch in the dimly-lit living room. I sit down next to her, hoping that the low lighting can give me some form of cover; a slight barrier. Especially if this doesn't go well.

"Is this about Hannah? Because if it is," she chips away at her dark nail polish, "I can't help you there. What's done is done." She stretches out her arms, studying her nails.

I clench my jaw, trying not to let her casual manner affect me. "No, not exactly." I stare straight at my lap. "It's about—it's about what you do" I stutter painfully. "Instead of killing yourself," I finish awkwardly, hoping I won't have to explain further.

I can feel her eyes on me. I turn towards her: her face is full of realization. "It's called cutting, Clay," she raises her eyebrows coyly, as if it's all a joke, "and it's really not that hard of a word to say. But what about it?"

I clear my throat, fighting the urge to put my head in my hands. Trying to have some composure I continue, "I was just wondering if it helped you at all. To—to deal with things," I falter, my voice almost dying out.

She reaches for a pack of gum on the table in front of us, and pops a piece in her mouth. "Yeah," she shrugs, then carelessly tosses the pack onto the table. "But that depends on how deep you go. If it's deep," she pops her gum, "it'll hurt more, and you'll feel better a lot longer. And then you won't have to do it again as soon. Unless," she gives me a pointed look, "you're really fucked up."

I grimace. "Right." I have no idea what to say to that. It feels like there are a million pairs of eyes on me, even though there's obviously only one.

Instead of questioning me, she continues, "But," she tilts her head, "you don't want to do it too deep. You could get nerve damage or some shit." She chews loudly.

"Or," she adds, with a mischievous look on her face, "you could cut a little too deep, and end up just like her."

I feel myself freeze up. She's high: that has to be the reason why she's so forthcoming. She would never say anything like that to me normally, I mean, she has some common sense. Right?

I'm frozen in my seat, mulling over everything she's just said. I'm trying to pick out the pieces that make sense; trying not to relate it back to Hannah, or say anything to Skye that I might regret.

Deep but not too deep. Deep but not too deep.

Before I can react, she grabs my arm. My reaction time is slowed: hers seems like it's heightened. It makes no sense at all. Shouldn't it be the other way around?

She pushes the sleeve on my hoodie up, and asks quietly, "Is that what you want to do Clay? End up like her?" She brings her eyes up to meet mine; it feels as if she's looking right through me, reading my thoughts.

Fuck. I need to get out of here.

I tear my arm out of her grasp, and stand up quickly. Too quickly. I falter a little, feeling light headed. I push my sleeve back down as I make my way towards her door. Skye follows me, pleading,

"Wait, Clay, I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry, I really am. I've just, you know, smoked too much. But you came here to talk, and I want to talk, I—"

I cut off her rambling, turning my head back towards her. "Thanks for your hospitality, Skye," I spit out, almost biting my tongue in the process, "but I think I should go." She stands helplessly in her doorway, possibly unable to physically follow me any further.

I want to make my words sting like hers did, even if it's just a little. As I'm walking down her driveway, I yell back, "Oh, and Skye? Quit smoking. It's disgusting." I exclaim with as much force and repulsion as I can manage. I don't even bother to turn around to see her reaction. I just keep walking, towards where, I don't know. I let my feet lead me, turning the thought over and over again in my mind:

Deep but not too deep. Deep but not too deep.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

What do you guys think? Please let me know how you feel about the overall plot idea that I put in the reviews yesterday (guppypuppy). Feel free to send any other ideas, characters you want to see, scenes that you think would make sense, etc. Thank you for reading!