Knife's Edge

CHAPTER THREE

My alarm starts blaring at half past six in the morning, callously dragging me from my dreamless sleep. I groan and reach over to silence it, rolling out of bed as I mentally prep myself for a quick run before school.

It's a routine I adapted to six months ago, around the time I really started to stress about my upcoming exams. Apparently, exercise is fuel for the brain.

I'll take any help I can get so long as it means I pass.

Come on, up and at 'em – etcetera, etcetera.

Trudging to my dresser, I stifle a yawn as I dig out some grey leggings, a sports bra, and a pink tank top.

As I'm pulling on the tank, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the back of my door. Even at a short glimpse (mere seconds, at most) it's impossible not to see it. 

I scowl.

Deep discolouration marks the otherwise pale skin above my belly button, the scar nodulous and fleshy – or, in other words, completely fucking disgusting. I poke and prod at it, the same way I always do, before hiding it underneath the pink fabric of my top.

Don't think about it. Don't look at it. Just look at something else.

So, as I try my best to tame my mane into a more presentable ponytail, I force my eyes around my bedroom, studying the décor as if I haven't lived here for years already.

The colour scheme is primarily made up of light blues and rich purples, the three walls painted powder blue and the fourth decorated in violet, patterned wallpaper. My duvet is purple, too, along with the carpet, curtains, and small dreamcatcher that hangs above my bed.

Charlotte's bed still sits on the other side of the room, dressed in the same duvet set as mine, ready and waiting for her to come back and visit. Even though it's been a year already since she moved away to university, the room still feels empty without her – cold and lonely, like I'm living with a ghost.

Okay, let's not look at this shit, either. It's depressing as fuck.

And, on that cheerful note, I head out for my run.

My feet make fast work of the pavements outside as I place my earbuds in, losing myself to the music as I run in time to the rhythm.

I take a detour down a long, narrow alleyway that smells suspiciously like piss, and eventually get spat out closer to the park. A few more turns and I'm there, racing laps around the grassy perimeter until my lungs are burning, my chest heaving with each new lungful of air I breathe in.

It's liberating and painful; I love it and hate it.

Eventually, I decide to head home, exiting the park through a side gate at a steady-paced jog.

Turning lefts and rights like one of those small, metal balls in a crappy, plastic maze game, I navigate my way with the expertise of someone who's lived on this side of town for over a decade. I know these roads like my own back garden; I could probably run them blindfolded if I tried. So, I don't really need to pay attention to where I'm going as I glance down at my phone, skipping through my Spotify playlist as I search for a decent song.

I don't need to look because I know where I'm going.

And that is my excuse – a fairly crap one, admittedly – for how I manage to barrel straight into some poor, unsuspecting bystander as I take my next left. I can't even try to argue that they run into me, because I'm the only one running. In fact, I'm the only one moving.

All I see, right before I crash face-first into them, is a flash of their dark clothing and the lamppost they lean against.

How. Fucking. Embarrassing.