Before The Sunrise

trapped

I lie on my left side in my bed, staring at my Tom Brady shrine. I want to roll to my right to stare at the blank wall, but my cracked rib hurts too much. Instead I'm forced to look at his pretty face and wonder if I'm wasting my time. All I've ever wanted was to be like him, but the closer I get, the farther out of reach it all seems. I know NFL players have come from worse circumstances, men who grew up homeless, orphaned, abused. If they could make it, I could easily do the same. I always promised myself that if I had football, I would be okay.

And yet, here I am with scholarship offers on the table from some of the biggest names in college football. I have everything I could have asked for at this stage. And I'm not okay.

If football can't fix me like it always has, then what can?

Rosie? DeAndre? Rafa?

The people who I know care about me, want me to be happy?

Until they break my heart like my mother did, like my father?

My friends, my boyfriend, my football coach, they've all given me every reason to trust them, to believe them, to let them help me. And yet I won't take it. And if I can't believe in them, who could I ever trust? Is my brokenness genetic? Can they fix me?

I slide out of my bed and sit on the floor, my back against the bed frame. I wait out the way my head spins, and then I ease open my desk drawer and pop open a case full of silver razor blades.

One flick of my wrist could end this pain forever. The sharp edge could silence the harsh sound of my father's voice screaming in my head. If I can't be fixed, why keep trying? Why stay here, where it hurts, when I could join my mother? If there's a special place in hell for those who die of suicide, at least she'll be there too.

It would be so much easier. I want to so desperately it hurts.

But I think of Rafa, and Rosie, and DeAndre, and Coach Bradford. I think of my dad, too. Instead I carve a small line into my upper thigh, a place no one would see, and slide it back into the drawer. I used to cut on my arms, but Rafa noticed once and told me he'd tell someone if I didn't stop. Lying to him makes me feel like shit, but after a weekend of not cutting, I had repeated panic attacks that were so bad that I missed school for three days while I sweated through every bed sheet I owned and threw up everything I drank or ate. Coach was so terrified after I missed three days' practice without a word that he showed up at my house. Even my dad was concerned. The only thing that allows me to live my daily life with a shred of normalcy is the blade. Rafa doesn't need to know.

Once I'm still, and the initial sting of the cut fades, fear swells right back up inside me. Recently, anxiety has been a constant companion, threatening me when I'm with others and overwhelming me when I'm alone. I don't know how to keep living with this.

I find my phone and call Rafa.

He answers on the first ring.

"Can I come over?" I ask dully.

"Yeah. You okay?"

"I'm fine," I lie.

"You sound off," Rafa says.

"Yeah," I agree. "I, um. I just don't want to be alone right now."

"Okay. I'll have food for you when you get here."

"Thank you," I whisper past a trembling lip.

"You're not alone, J."

"I'll see you soon," I reply.

Then I hang up. Feeling as alone as ever.

This chapter is awkwardly short. Whoops. I'm giving the one and a half people who care a double update in compensation.

Happy 4th of July. I guess.

x. Sky