Page 3 of Only With Me

The second time was self-inflicted a year later.

We were sixteen, and I found him in the bathtub.

There was so much blood in the water, I couldn’t see where the injury was at first. The opposite thigh from the fenceaccident was covered in little cuts. But it was the vertical one that did the most damage.

It was the first time I saw my father cry—from anger and fear.

It felt like a part of me was dying, and I couldn’t understand why he’d done it. And now again. I wish I could take away his pain.

My brother—the class clown since the day we started kindergarten, the loud and obnoxious one always up for a party, the most rambunctious person I knew—was hurting himself.

It didn’t make any sense.

Wilder has no danger-o-meter. He’s a risk-taker to his core. The adrenaline rush he gets fuels years of antics that have led to him getting injured numerous times. The time he invented Barn Roof Trampoline tournaments and did a cannonball off the roof. Instead of landing on his feet, he bounced and flew right into a tree. He got a concussion and a broken rib.

You’d think that would’ve slowed him down, but a month later, we went to Blackhole Granite to swim in the quarry. He had a little bit too much to drink and when he jumped in from the twenty-foot cliff, he didn’t swim back up. Landen and Tripp rushed in and pulled him out. I gave him CPR until he finally coughed up water.

It’s almost like he doesn’t care about the risks and there’s a small part of me that wonders if he does it on purpose.

After the first time he cut his inner thigh, our parents made him see a therapist and psychiatrist to properly diagnose him. He promised he wasn’t doing it because he wanted to die. Rather, he just wanted to numb the pain. Dull the sadness that overtook his mind sometimes. Feel relief from the overwhelming emotions he didn’t know how to handle.

I suspect that’s why he drinks until he blacks out, too.

Still, they took him twice a month until he turned eighteen and then Wilder was old enough to make the decision not to go anymore.

I wish he had continued.

The depression he was trying so desperately to cover up suffocated me more than he’d ever realized. I felt those feelings too, but I never put a label on it. I thought it was my own sadness consuming me, and maybe part of it is or maybe it’s something we share as twins, but I couldn’t comprehend how he felt it so deeply that he had to find ways to numb it. Ways to live around it.

Perhaps he felt mine too and the weight of each other’s feelings was too heavy for one person.

I wish I could turn them off, take them away from him, and be the one who suffered for both of us. I hate that I can’t.

As far as I knew, he’d gone three years without cutting. This would be the second time he’s cut deep enough to lose consciousness.

Wilder rarely talked about his feelings, even when I tried to get him to tell me how he was doing, he’d swear he was doing great. As if he didn’t want to burden anyone with the knowledge that maybe he wasn’t. Or perhaps admit them to himself. Either way, keeping it in was causing more damage.

My throat tightens as I stare at him, keeping as much pressure on his thigh as possible. I love him more than anything. Even when he’s a real pain in my fucking ass, I’ve worried more about his well-being than my own. I don’t want him to feel sad and would prefer he’d talk to me when he did, but knowing he never does is why I go everywhere with him. It’s the reason I don’t make a fuss out of him acting up or doing dumb shit because then at least for a moment he’s laughing and happy. Whether or not it’s an act, I can’t always tell.

He’s good at putting on a facade.

“They’re here,” Dad tells me when I zone out. I haven’t stopped staring at Wilder.

As soon as the EMTs walk in, I quickly explain what happened when I found him and then move out of their way. They do a quick clean and wrap job before getting him on the stretcher and taking him out to the ambulance.

“Waylon…” My dad’s booming voice shakes me out of my trance.

His hand’s on my shoulder, squeezing me. “Your hands and legs are covered in blood. Wash up, and then I’ll drive us to the hospital. Your mother’s ridin’ in the back with him.”

All I can do is nod.

After rinsing my hands in the sink, I step into the shower, grab the shower head, and then spray my bare legs until they’re clean. My mind’s blank and my heart races nonstop as I go through the motions of getting dressed and meeting the rest of my siblings downstairs. It stays empty as Dad drives us into town.

It’s not until hours later that a nurse approaches us in the waiting room and says he’s awake and asking for me. The doctor gives us a quick rundown of what they did and what to expect.

Wilder’s hooked up to an IV and blood pressure cuff. His thigh is bandaged and covered with a blanket, so I can’t see it, but the doctor said it took them a while to properly suture. He’s going to have one hell of a scar.

The psychiatrist on call has already met with Wilder and our parents. Now that Wilder’s an adult, he can speak on his own behalf. Since he claimed it wasn’t a suicide attempt and was under a lot of stress when he did it, the doctor chose not to admit him as an inpatient. But they’re setting him up with appointments to speak to a psychologist to determine the root of his depression.