Page 7

My childhood home is a small, older, two-story Mediterranean-style house painted a shade of coral in a quiet neighborhood. Now that it's filled with empty nesters, it seems even quieter. Inside, everything is just as it was the last time I saw it. It shouldn't surprise me—it's been only months, not years since I was last here.

But so much has happened, and I'm entirely changed. How dare the rest of the world stay exactly the same.

"I guess I don't need to show you around," my mom says, setting her purse down in the kitchen. "Your things are in your old room. We had a hell of a time getting it all out of that storage unit—your dad had to get a court order. And don't even get me started on your car; I'll add the impound fees to your tab. It's parked on the street around the corner."

"Okay, thanks," I tell her.

"Teagan?" she calls as I begin to climb the stairs, her tone serious.

"Yeah?"

"Your new phone is on the bed. You won't be able to download any apps without a password."

I sigh. "And will this password be made available to me?"

"No, it will not," she says. "Once you get a good job, you can buy your own phone and pay your own phone bill. But for now, the purpose of that phone is to help you find a job. Same with the computer. I'll give you the wifi password, but you need to spend your time and our money looking for a job."

"I got it."

"Thanks for being so understanding," she says. "You're showing a lot of maturity."

"It's no big deal," I say, shrugging. And I mean that part. It's been a long time since I've been in control of my own life and how I spend my time. I'm getting used to the cage, even if it is cramped and uncomfortable.

"Your dad picked up pho from that vegan place you like in Fountain Valley. He should be home in about twenty minutes or so."

"Sounds great," I tell her. "I think I'll take a shower if that's okay."

She smiles. "You don't need to ask permission to bathe here…or eat or anything like that."

"Right…habit, I guess."

I turn, continuing up the staircase and then down the hallway to my old bathroom. My makeup case sits on the counter between the two sinks with a toothbrush and toothpaste set neatly on one side. On the other side, there's an eight-by-ten photo frame with an image that says, 'It's never too late to become something new.'

That wasn't there before. That one's just for me.

I turn the dial on the old shower and strip down while I wait for the water to heat up. Then, exhaling slowly, I step under the spray.

It's been so long since I showered under water this warm and pressure like this, so long since I've been touched by another human being that it almost feels like a hug. The realization alone almost brings me to tears, but I shake it off, trying to remember instead the girl who never cried, the one who ran on a healthy emotional diet of apathy and underlying rage released only in small, controlled amounts with little to no collateral damage. She wasn't happy—she was just okay—but okay is a lot better than I am now.

I wash and rinse my hair before noticing a small disposable razor sitting in the soap dish built into the shower wall. I haven't been allowed to have a razor; I haven't shaved my body hair in months. I lather up my loofa and start with my armpits before moving to my legs.

The cheap, dull blade doesn't move easily through the coarse hair on my lower legs; I take my time, going over the same spots two, sometimes three times. I feel it nick my skin when I run it over the curve of my kneecap, eliciting a hiss as I suck in a breath through my teeth.

Blood runs from the cut over my knee and down to my toes in ribbons of deep crimson. I watch how it paints my skin before running over the side of the tub and spiraling down the drain. I think, for just a moment, how beautiful it is—how I've missed the sight and smell of it, the taste. I run my fingers through it and almost bring them to my mouth before quickly turning and rinsing them under the spray.

No.

I can't do this. There's no power in blood, no beauty in it. There's no place in the world for a girl who fantasizes about the taste of iron on her tongue and waking up in sheets stainedin scarlet—a girl who still dreams about the feeling of a new titanium blade sinking into soft flesh.

Nowhere without an electric fence anyway.

I try not to think about it as I finish shaving my legs and pubic hair. Then I towel off, bandage the wound, and throw on a pair of black sweats and a tank top before heading downstairs. I smell the food before I hit the landing, and my stomach rumbles.

"Hey, Teagan," my dad says. "Welcome home, honey."

"Thanks," I tell him. "Thanks for dinner. You have no idea how much I missed food."

"Hey, they had a really nice menu there," my mom counters.