yours.

[40] Jasper

That night, I don't have to worry about criticizing myself for my weakness. My father does it for me.

This is why I stay out with Miles, I think regretfully. To avoid this.

I'm busy restocking the fridge with water bottles, something neither of my parents had to ask me to do, when my father comes up behind me. I don't have to look up to know it's him -- his heavy footsteps are enough indication. 

I refuse to make eye contact, and my father's form looms over me, casting shadows on my work. "Jasper."

I glance up like I'm surprised to see him. "Oh, hello, Dad."

He crosses his bulky arms. "Your mother tells me you haven't been spending much time with her lately. She's been lonely without you here."

"I've been busy," I say easily. Then my heart sinks as I continue truthfully, "But I'll be home more often, starting tomorrow."

"And why is that?"

"I, um..."

His frown deepens. "Spit it out."

My gaze falls to the cool bottles in my hands. "The person I was spending time with and I had a disagreement. We won't be seeing each other much anymore." I blink away memories of crying in Miles' arms and sigh.

"You really shouldn't leave her alone, anyway," my father scolds, returning to the topic of my mother. "She needs support. You know how much she's lost."

How much we've all lost. I want to remind my father that he could be the one providing her support, but he's never there, either. Granted, he is off at work, doing something in finance he never wants to talk about, but it's not like he does anything for her once he comes home. "I understand."

"No, you don't." He uncrosses his arms, and I can see his stomach bulging against the buttons of his dress shirt. "You never do anything for anyone but yourself. You think it's okay, that you can get away with it, but I notice. I'm not dumb, Jasper."

"I know you aren't--"

"You never do anything for your mother, or me, or this household. You're a dead weight. And I like to think it's not because you don't care enough to help out. No, you care, but you're lazy. Your will is too weak to drive you to do much of anything. So instead of committing to anything, you traipse around town with boys you barely know and hang around with diseased rats -- yes, I see the animal hairs clinging to your clothes every night -- without a care in the world, and you leave your mother at home alone with no one to keep her company."

Each word cuts deeper into my chest until it really does feel like I'm bleeding out, like my blood will run with the water from the bottles and leave strange pinkish stains all over the kitchen floor. And the longer my father speaks, the more I accept his insults as truth. 

I always do. Because it's what I deserve, after what I've done -- sending my mother into an endless spiral of depression, disobeying my father time and time again, destroying a long-established relationship...

Killing my brother.

All that and more I've done, and just in the span of two years. So if the only thing I receive as punishment is a few angry words, then I'll take it. I should have it worse.

Eventually, my father tires himself out with his tirade and slinks back to whatever cave he crawled from.

I finish my work in the fridge quickly and make my way back upstairs, blinking back my second wave of tears today. I start toward my bedroom, where I'm sure no one will come to bother me, but there's a small, familiar whisper in the back of my mind urging me to go into the hall toilet beside my room. I can't resist it.

The tears won't back down, and I brace my hands against the cool surface of the basin, begging myself to calm down, telling myself this isn't anything new. Your father yelled at you. It doesn't matter. It happens all the time.

But now that Miles is gone, and I'll be stuck in my home with him and my mother all day from now on, everything is a hundred times worse. A silly part of me wants to believe Miles will end things with his girlfriend, that he'll choose me over her, but I know he won't. He's known Krystina for years... he's known me for five weeks. He'd be stupid to give her up.

So I'm alone again. No friends, no Miles, no Max. Just me. Again.

Before I know what I'm doing, I drop to my knees, searching the cabinet under the basin for the old, dull razor I hid away for times like this. I promised myself I wouldn't do this to myself anymore, that our new house would be a fresh start for me, but nothing is forever, right? Especially not promises.

My fingers curling around the razor's rubber handle, I bite down hard on my lip to keep myself from sobbing aloud and draw the razor from the darkness of the cabinet. Its silver blades gleam in the harsh light of the restroom, worn down by neglect and dozens of needless shaves. And, just as I expected, faint red stains line its sharpened edges.

Slumping back against the restroom's locked door, I pull up the right sleeve of my jacket, eyeing the fading red lines marking my wrist. Tears fall to wet them, and I quickly wipe them dry.

I deserve this, I remind myself. I deserve all of this. The tears...

One swipe, and a healing cut reopens.

The insults...

Another swipe creates a new wound, this one farther up my forearm.

The pain.

My tears devolve into helpless cries as I swipe, over and over, until my work is done.