Broken Hands

67. Alexandra

Damien walked through the dim hallway, portraits stamped to the wall like some badge and validation, he stopped in front of a room with a white door. The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, a slight gust of air brushing against his face. The room, once filled with the buzz of teenage life, now dead—eerily still. The bed was unmade, a shirt tossed carelessly over the back of the chair. But what caught his eye were the small, stark details as he walked in: a half-empty pill bottle resting on the shelf, the lids and tiny pills scattered haphazardly beside it. Blades, sharp and cold, lay on the wooden surface like silent sentinels.

His stomach churned, but before he could process it, the sound of heavy steps pounded down the hall. The door slammed open, and she stepped in. Her bloodshot eyes burned with defiance, her face flushed and her cheeks damp, her once long blond hair was a short mess, chopped off with scissors like a work badly done. She stood tall, her chin raised, but Damien could see the fight she was trying to keep up.

"What do you want?" she snapped.

Damien's gaze shifted from the pills and blades back to her. His voice was firm but laced with concern as he took a slow step toward her. "Why?" he said quietly.

She didn't say anything at first, just glared at him with the same cold, rebellious eyes she'd had as a child.

"Why?" she finally spat, her voice trembling with anger and something else, something far more broken. "Why the pills, why the blades? What do you think you're going to do with them?"

Damien's heart sank. He could feel her pain, the depth of her silence that screamed louder than words. His hand gripped the back of the chair, knuckles turning white as he struggled to hold it together. "What's going on with you, Alexandra?" he asked, his voice cracking with frustration and helplessness. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"Because I can." she shot her face stoic.

"You're pregnant for Christ's sake! Think about what you're doing to your child. Why do you keep doing this?" Damien roared a desperate cry of reasoning.

Her eyes flickered briefly, and for a moment, he thought she might answer him. Then, in a low voice that barely reached him, she said, "I don't know. I just... forget it." She shrugged bitterly, her eyes welled up with tears. But she blinked it away fighting to stay composed.

Damien stood still, the silence in the room suffocating him. He felt the urge to move closer, to make her know everything would be just fine, but he knew she wouldn't allow it. She has become a shadow of herself, she is different, aggressive, violent, and irrational. Damien knew why she was hurting, she had been hurting since they lost their mother.

"I'll let Father know," Damien finally said, his voice steady. "We'll get you the help you need. You don't have to go through this like this," he mentioned at the pills.

Her eyes snapped up to him, and in a split second, the anger and fear collided. "You won't!" She barked, "I'm not sick, I'm fine."

Damien shook his head trying to keep his composure, "You're not fine, and that's not a choice."

She glared, blue eyes sharp and desperate, "If you tell him, you'll regret it, 'cause I'll be gone." she shouted, her voice trembling but fierce, like the last defense she had left. "Just stop." Her voice dropped into a plea, "I'll get better, I'll find a way, it's too late to get them anyway! I don't need them!"

Damien froze, the words cutting deeper than he could have ever expected. "It's never too late," he whispered, his voice barely audible. He took a step forward, his hand reaching out instinctively. "You just have to trust us. Please."

She shook her head violently, her hands gripping the edges of the bed like she wanted to tear the world apart. "You have no idea what's happening to me! What I've been through!" Her voice cracked, the pain unmistakable.