Skeletons

Chapter 9

 tw for self-harm there is not a ton but the themes and aftermath are still there don't read this chapter if you don't think you can I will leave a cute little summary at the end of the chapter that won't be graphic at all so you still know what goes on in the chapter

It felt like forever, the one year, two weeks, and three days kind of forever—since I last let the blade touch my skin. And yet, here I was, sitting on the bathroom floor, the tiles cool against my bare legs, my left wrist wrapped in bandages that used to be crisp white but now looked had red blotches covering them like a fucked up little piece of art I never intended to create.

Taking a deep breath, I hoisted myself up with a shaky grip on the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My face was a mess of emotions frustration, guilt, a touch of defiance.  I knew what I'd done, but at the same time, I wasn't exactly sorry, more so I felt like I had failed tremendously by breaking this streak of mine.

I thought I'd moved past this, that I'd gotten better. But then life decided to throw a curveball, and here I am, back in the same old mess the second shit gets tough.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath, feeling totally lost as what I am supposed to do here.

Pulling on long sleeves felt like the only option, even though it sucked big time. But hey, it's February in New York, so nobody's gonna question it. As for Dad... well, who knows what'll happen there. Maybe he'll retaliate against the iron clad rule of Mother dearest. It's all up in the air, just like everything else.

It wasn't the act of doing it that fucked me up frankly I enjoyed in a sick sort of way. It was the afterwards that got me. The going about my business then catching a glimpse of my little accident that was plastered on my wrist and go on a spiral again. A spiral that would more often than not result in me back on the tile floor.

I stumble out of the bathroom, my feet clumsy and unsteady. Finally reaching my door, I throw it open and collapse onto my bed, exhaling a long, deep sigh of relief. I reach out to the side, fumbling for the string of my bedside lamp. With a quick tug, I extinguish the light, enveloping myself in darkness.

I tug a blanket over myself, still lying face down on the bed, seeking comfort as I gradually surrender to the embrace of sleep.

The next morning's light seemed harsh, slicing through the curtains and casting stark shadows across my bedroom. With each step out of my room I felt the tension coil tighter around my chest, an invisible vice squeezing the air from my lungs.

My mother stood at the stove, her back rigid as she stirred a pot of oatmeal. The clatter of utensils against the pan echoed in the silence, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within me.

"Mom," I began, my voice shaky but determined, "we need to talk about JD."

She stiffened at the mention of his name, her grip on the spoon tightening. Slowly, she turned to face me, her eyes ablaze with a mixture of defiance and concern.

"You already know how I feel," she said, her voice clipped. "We've been over this, Lydia. My decision is final."

I felt a surge of frustration rising within me, the years of pent-up resentment bubbling to the surface. "You don't know him like I do," I shot back, my voice trembling with emotion. "You can't just keep him away from me because of your own issues."

Her jaw clenched, her features contorting with anger. "This isn't about me, it's about your safety," she retorted, her voice sharp as a knife. "I won't let you make the same mistakes I did."

My hands clenched into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I fight to contain the storm raging within me. "You can't control my life, Mom!" I exclaimed, my voice rising with each word. "I'm not a child anymore. I deserve to make my own choices."