Page 1 of In the Middle of No(ah)where (Rockport Ridge #2)

Noah

I didn't want to die–not really. Using the metal tip of my mechanical pencil or an unbent paper clip often helped me break the skin when the mental anguish was just a little too much to bear. The cuts usually eased the hurt, like a balloon with a tiny pinhole—a slow release of the pain buildup.

I glanced down at the souvenirs before throwing my head back, rubbing my finger across one of the raised marks on my forearm—a reminder about how damaged I am.

The water that began to cool sloshed around my neck as I dipped a little further into the claw-foot tub, trying to stay warm.

I used my toe to unhook the drain plug before turning on the hot water.

Being home alone during the summer is part of my everyday routine, and I was glad to have this time to quiet my mind. Adding a new mark helped me cope. To erase the fear and calm the constant noise in my head. I didn't want to feel this way anymore.

Used.

Alone.

Dad's words from last night fill my thoughts as I recall him seeing two guys on a TV show kiss.

If that were my kid, I'd throw him and the boyfriend out in the gutter where they belonged.

He didn't know I was standing in the kitchen and heard him rant to my mother about the fags .

I felt so broken. It was as if I could feel the cracks in my heart deepen.

I'm only sixteen. I should be playing sports or experiencing my first kiss.

Some of the guys in my class have already lost their virginity.

That's what guys my age did, right? I don't know.

I hate having anyone too close. What if my dad found out that I was one of those fags ? Would he really kick me out?

I pick up the razor blade lying on the side of the tub and twirl it between my thumb and pointer finger.

I'm sure there's a fancy name for that finger, but paying attention and focusing on school has always been hard for me.

Thinking about school and the pressure of being a junior in a month made my head hurt.

College entrance exams, applications, career choices…

it's all everyone is talking about. How much worse will it be when I'm a senior?

I stilled the blade between my two digits and pressed it against my left wrist. At first, there was slight pressure.

The skin around the metal turned white and then pink.

I pushed harder. The blade tip turned red before crimson rivulets trickled down the side of my wrist. I focused on the drops hitting the water, fading from red to pink and disappearing altogether before another drop of blood hit.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I felt nothing. At least, not until I had moved the blade vertically a few more inches across my skin. I welcomed the sting.

I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths.

Turning off the water with my foot, I moved the blade to the other wrist. This time, I cut through the skin in a quick, horizontal slash.

Damn, that one stung worse, but in a good way.

I put both hands under the water and dropped the blade, letting the red liquid pool around me.

My cuts are usually shorter and less deep, but after hearing those words last night, I needed something more substantial to quiet the voices.

Time ticked by. I don't know how long I sat here. It could have been seconds. Minutes?

My mind finally quieted.

I'll no longer have to hide my secrets. My friends might be sad temporarily, but they will eventually go to college, and I will be nothing more than a memory one day.

I slide further down in the tub. My body feels weak, and I rest the back of my neck on the edge. I see nothing but the crimson water as I close my eyes. I suddenly feel so tired. The light behind my lids turned bright. White and fuzzy. My body felt paralyzed as I tried to pull myself up again.

I didn't mean to go this deep. I just needed the pain to stop.

I can hear my heartbeat fade in my ears.

Is my head underwater? There is a sound coming from outside the bathroom, but it's muffled.

I can't be underwater–I'm still breathing.

Black edges around my vision. The muffled sound got louder—my name.

Someone called my name. Maybe it's someone from the afterlife guiding me to what comes next.

My name louder–voice panicked.

There's rapid pounding on the door, but I'm too weak to respond. The screams were nothing more than an echo. I strained to listen to the knob jiggle frantically–I think. Then, a loud sound, like a wrecking ball, busted through the bathroom door.

A hand reached toward me.

Their heavy hand cradled my neck.

They're too late.

Too…late.

The edges that were starting to blacken entirely took over.