Burn
Sixteen
Confessions
My notebook is still blank by the time next therapy group session rolls around.
Amber whines about her overbearing, perfectionist parents.
Nate mutters his way through his cycles of suicidal thoughts.
Brady bursts into tears instead of reading his secrets.
Ramon stands up and speaks of his battle, a climbing tug-of-war with his worthlessness and uncaring father.
When Dr. Gil turns to me, her beady eyes wide and eager, posed on the edge of her seat, I find my voice.
"This is bullshit," I say quietly, my voice muffled by my hand in front of my mouth. I twist the thread on my sweater around my finger, watching it turn blue and bulge from lack of blood circulation and unwind it.
"Language," Mila says softly, wiping her chubby fingers on her sweats as her glossy eyes stare at me angrily.
"This is bullshit," Ramon echoes, grinning madly.
"It is," Nate continues, slapping his hands on his thighs.
"We're supposed to sit here and share our most painful stories, the ones the dredge up the memories we tried so hard to forget? And don't you dare say it's because you care; you care about getting paid. You can stuff us with enough pills to make us vacant-eyed and waddle but our mouths still work," I spit, venom dripping, staring at my feet, noticing the scuff on my sneaker. "We all have our demons—"
I spot Royce sitting on the floor between Mila and Amber, his face bruised still and the scratches on his cheeks glittering like freshly-healed scars when he turns his head, watching the sparring match.
"—And they know to swim. Talking about them…it makes them harder to push past. It brings up all the emotions we've hidden. Doesn't that sound so freeing and healing, Doc?"
The room is dead silent.
Dr. Gil clears her throat, flustered. "I never said—" she starts, her pitchy voice betraying her embarrassment but I leap to my feet.
"Don't you dare apologize! You think it helps but it doesn't, not always." I wave my arms.
"I bet you're all wondering why crazy little Chloe's fucking here instead of being some cheerleader somewhere. You really wanna know?" I demand to the wide-eyed group, the wide-eyed doctor.
"I'm here because I fucked up. Big time. I let the words swallow me and drown out my own thoughts, taking over and look! Just look! So how amazing talking about it makes me feel!" I ripping at my sleeve, struggling to pull the fabric up past the ragged stitches.
"Look." My voice is softer, weaker as I slowly come out of my angry bubble.
I sit down and stare at my arms, stretched out like long twigs before me, pink, ragged cuts layering them. My eyes blur with tears.
"I'm not crazy," I whimper finally before curling up on myself, folding in, doubling.
I cry quietly.
During dinner, Ramon steers me into the men's bathroom. At first, I start to panic when I see the urinals and watery tiles but I notice the intense sadness in his dark eyes.
"That was inane, back in group. No one here ever talks about things like, well, this," he says slowly, reaching for the bottom of his sweater.
My heartbeat drums in my fingertips.
Royce is in the mirror, staring at me with angry, accusing eyes. He looks warped, thinner than I remember, gaunt-faced and his hair disheveled. His hands are scabbed. I can still remember the blood on them, the gaping wounds bleeding, staining the floor, a puddle, no one else taking notice.
"You were right, you know. About the whole demon thing. I've been here for months, and just talking about it make me feel like shit, like I'm not man enough to deal with my shit." Ramon's shirt is halfway off his chest, revealing a lean tummy and dark pleasure trail. Hs voice trembles.
I shake and try to breathe. In, out, in, out, my thoughts scream, rattling in my brain as my eyes watch in surprise.
His chest is broader, more stocky, but its riddled with long, ugly words. Fat. Failure. Bitch. Douchebag. Abomination.
He takes a deep breath.
"Girls cut...boys just don't. It's a pussy thing to do, right? God!"
He pulls his shirt back on slowly, like it's painful, and I watch as inch by inch of his skin is covered with grey fabric.
For a very long time, neither of us say a word and I sit on the ground, not caring about the water soaking my sweats. At least they're dark.
"Why?" my mouth asks for me, because my brain and vocal chords are currently not speaking and my thoughts are scattered in every direction. Some stay with Royce, others cling to Rae, while most float in the dark matter of space, waiting to be plucked for verbal use. I force myself to blink.
"Because I was angry and scared," he replies softly, kneeling down beside me, crouching really. "Why are you crying?"
His hands cup my face and his long lashes flash at me, cutting off his dangerous eyes.
"I didn't realize I was crying." My throat is dry.
"What you said today was fucking insane," he tells me, nuzzling my hair.
I peel away. "Good or bad kind?" I'm eyeballing him warily now, realizing we're utterly alone and he could absolutely take advantage of my weakness.
He sees my apprehension and sighs heavily, leaning against the counter with his back to me.
In the glass of the mirror, Royce is watching us closely, a mocking smile lighting up his angular features. His eyes look red.
"Good. Chloe, I won't hurt you. Much." Ramon's smile is too brilliant and I find my heart thumping loudly. "Besides, I'm sure Derek Souza wouldn't like me stealing his girl," he says with a laugh.
My face warms as my heart drops. Yeah, you did a lot. "It's complicated," I murmur, squeezing my hand into a fist to keep myself together.
"Aren't all relationships?" He pulls a face.
"Fucking thanks, Mother Russia."
"You know, they're serving something nasty no doubt for dinner. This healthy shit isn't doing anything for Mila…"
As I trail behind him, shutting off the light, I catch a glimpse of Royce's eyes reflecting the light like a cat's. My stomach hurts.