Page 36 of The Intimacy of Skin

We’d become insatiable since I stayed the night at Price’s house. It was embarrassing, really. We could be compared to the horniest of teenagers on a good day and debauched whores on a bad one. Which was quite hilarious to me, given what I’d done for the last eight years of my life.

Before I knew it, almost an entire month had passed. Two since I began working at The Arch, which was a mindfuck by itself. I hadn’t lasted this long at a job before, and I was finding myself liking the people there.

Layla was a bit of a bitch, Tobias was still awkward and aloof, but Callum was pretty cool. We talked a lot out back by the wall, hidden from any cameras. He’d smoke while I had a silent disco, and all would be well. I talked to a few of the servers, but it was mostly in passing.

There was Jackson, too, though he was also tight-lipped. I had gotten used to Brandt and he was a bit more tolerable since he’d gotten off Tobias’s ass. He wasn’t walking around yelling at the poor kid all day anymore, thanks to Price’s lessons.

Working at The Arch was easy. Being around Price all day was a bit harder since I wanted to jump his bones every time I saw him, but I made it through. Whenever we got the chance, we’d spend the night together. It was usually at his house out of respect for Willow.

Willow was a lot better with Price now that he’d come around more often, and she understood our situation. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean she completely stayed out of our business. Any chance she got, she let me know that Price and I should be dating, not fuck buddies.

She said I’d been happier since I’d started seeing him. She said I smiled more and laughed more, and that every day she saw my skin without bruises was a day she rejoiced .

I was aware of that. Very aware. In fact, the idea had crossed my mind only a thousand times.

But it wasn’t in the cards for someone like me. We were on a timeline, Price and I. In a little more than four months, we’d split ways, and I’d go back to punishing myself the way I deserved. I’d do the one thing I knew I couldn’t possibly fuck up, with the little voice in my head to guide me.

Willow didn’t know that beneath my smiles, tucked neatly under my happiness, was a steady storm waiting to wreak havoc.

Black, murky water waded up to my chin. I was so close to drowning that I was flailing. Helplessly trying to find something to hold onto, something to use to climb out of the never-ending ocean I’d fallen into.

As the days passed, I tried to remember Mom’s voice.

The way her pitch would catch on a particularly high note in her rendition of her favorite song, or the way she’d belt the chorus like it was her own concert.

I’d think back on the echo of her stomach, the smell of the Great Value nail polish remover she’d bought from the old, shady store down the road.

I saw the red hue of her nail polish everywhere I went. When I was home, I’d take the remaining bottle I had from my hidden box of memories. I’d hold it to my chest, desperately trying to calm my mind.

Nothing was working.

I hadn’t punished myself since before my agreement began with Price, and my skin was begging for it. My mind was screaming for it.

My time with Price had been amazing. Earth-shattering, even. Deep down, though, I knew what it meant. It meant I had lost control, and I desperately needed to reel it back in before something bad happened.

Something like giving in to happiness I didn’t deserve.

My shift at The Arch ended an hour and a half ago. Willow wasn’t home, deciding to stay with her friend Carly for the night, giving me the green light to invite Price over if I wanted.

Usually, that idea would appeal to me. Instead, when Price offered to spend a night together, I declined. Something I hadn’t done yet.

Being the caring man that he is, he asked follow-up questions, including if Willow was home. I’d lied and said yes, to which he then offered to stay at his place. When I still said no, he’d asked if I was feeling sick.

Price couldn’t possibly understand how there wasn’t an easy way to explain the kind of sick I was.

I didn’t have a fever, yet it felt like my body was going up in flames.

I didn’t have a cough, though there was a rawness in my throat as the screams from my soul tried to make it past my lips.

I wasn’t nauseous from a stomach bug, but from the twisting and turning in my gut as time moved further and further.

I was tired. A bone-deep exhaustion that wouldn’t go away no matter how long I slept, how often Price and I fucked, or how many coffees I drank during the day just to look alive.

Ten years of incurable, unbanishable demons held me by their claws day in and day out. They were bloodthirsty, screeching directly into my eardrum to do something about it.

Gain back your control.

Bleed for your mistakes.

You need it.

You need it.

You need ? —

I screwed my eyes shut, inhaling a shaky breath as I pulled open the cabinet door underneath the bathroom sink.

Bending down, I reached for the small box.

It was inconspicuous. Dull. A plain black box with a black lid on top, tucked into the farthest corner behind various hairsprays, wayward rolls of toilet paper, and the random makeup Willow stored there.

The box was mine, dubbed my “working box” thanks to Willow. She was under the impression it held everything I needed for a night on the street. Which was partially true.

Opening it, the first thing anyone saw would be various types of condoms, a few unopened lubes, chapstick, cleaning wipes, and the half-empty lipgloss container for the odd nights I needed something extra for clients.

Underneath the strategically placed mountain of condoms was a sheet of toilet paper.

Beneath the sheet of toilet paper was a hidden blade placed right beside a small package of Band-Aids.

Beside that was an assortment of gauze, all different sizes depending on my needs, and a single roll of mostly used medical tape .

A lone off-brand over-the-counter pain pill sat off to the side, jostling around with every movement as a reminder of my last failed attempt on my life.

Seeing it always brought back memories of the pain I had been in the next morning.

The scent of vomit and the distinct smell of my body shutting down burned my nostrils as if it had happened yesterday.

I’d never tried again and didn’t plan to.

My fingertips began to tingle as I picked up the blade, twisting my wrist to let it gleam in the shitty bathroom lighting. I looked over to the closed door, letting my thoughts fight themselves for a moment.

What if I didn’t do it?

If I did, I’d have to hide the marks from Price for a while.

The cleanup was always a bitch.

There were a million reasons not to, but the water beginning to cover my mouth didn’t allow for further hesitation.

Sitting on the toilet, I pulled the hem of my boxers up until they fit into the crease of my groin.

Finding unscarred skin to cut would be too difficult, so instead I found a group of old scars that were flush against my skin, pale white and almost unnoticeable.

Tiny, red beads of sin rose to the surface over the first swipe of my blade. It was a warm-up. The starting course to the feast my demons demanded.

Another swipe. Relief trickled with the crimson, a contrast to my pasty thigh beneath it. My hand moved on autopilot, something else taking over and creating the next map of mistakes.

The burn didn’t deter me, though a few had me sucking in a breath when they were especially tender. The pain was what I focused on, knowing it would absolve me of what I’d done. Of the control I’d lost. Of what Thompson had turned me into.

For the first time in years, tears began to blur my vision as I pressed the blade against my thigh, pushing deeper with each touch. I could feel the adrenaline rush through me, an elated frenzy of emotions that kept me from stopping. I wasn’t done yet. I couldn’t be done yet.

There was so much to atone for, so little for me to grasp onto, and this was the only way.

Another sheet of toilet paper was stained red, finding its way into the toilet bowl.

I was an expert at balancing causing damage and controlling it, not letting the evidence of my grief drip onto the floor yet creating enough of it that I could convince myself it was enough.

I hadn’t cried while doing this since I was sixteen. I had considered myself numb to it. The act didn’t bother me as much as it had when I’d first started.

Yet here I was, hiccupping through loud sobs as my tears mixed with my blood. It was a deeper red now, a steady line down the side of my thigh as a drop escaped me, splashing onto the bathroom tile.

Pressure built in my chest as I paused, staring at the mess I’d created. I grappled with order, gripping it with strong hands to keep myself sane. When I didn’t, shit went wrong.

I was bleeding freely onto the floor, officially losing my mind as I stared at the small puddle. My heart hammered against my ribcage, pounding on the walls of my chest in an attempt to break free as I sobbed. This hadn’t happened to me since the first few times I’d done this to myself.

I had to be in control.

My eyes slowly shut as I leaned against the back of the toilet, letting my defeat roll across my shoulders. I pointed my chin towards the ceiling, the hand holding the blade falling limp to my side as I slumped in on myself.

Not for the first time recently, I thought about Mom. Her hugs and the gentle way she’d rub my back when I was crying. The smell of the nasty perfume she was always wearing, despite my constant pleading to her not to.

For a moment, I wasn’t Crew, the lost, pained man who loathed the next morning I woke up. I was the little boy who loved his mother. The barely legal adult who couldn’t cry at her funeral because crying made it real.