Nadine's Stuck.

TWENTY

Nadie's POV:

I'm an idiot.

I'm really, really stupid, no matter what my school marks say. Sweet little, quiet Nadine. She's a pleasure to have in class. I'll never be the teacher's least favorite or their most favorite because I'm just there. I'm nothing. I'm never going to be something.  I'm just pleasure.

What part of my rules did I not understand?

Let go one more time. What fucking bullshit.

I knock my knuckles against my head, the same way I would if I was knocking on a door. But no one answers. So I knock, louder and louder and louder - Harder and harder and harder - hoping for someone to answer. It's the only thing I can focus on now. The painfully comforting beat of my fist hitting against my head. 

The beat slows and my hand falls, resting beside me. No one will ever answer you, Nadia. Kind-you-can-feel tears sting my eyes, sting my skin. I'm so over this. So done.

A few weeks.

Two. Two weeks.

That's not a lot.

I don't know at what point between me waking and my door-knocking rhythm that I got my cloth and my blade, but the towel is laid across my lap with the razor in the middle. My water bottle is beside me, right next to the hand that had fallen.

I glance over at Zara who looks at me with pity. I don't need her fucking pity. I turn her around, smashing her face into my pillow.

I don't need anyone's pity.

I pour a bit of water on my towel.

My fallen hand now gravitates towards the blade. I suck a quick, fast breath of air, biting my lip hard after. 

I hold it to my skin. It's February. Cold. But for some reason, even though I know I'm going to be dead by then, I'm still worried about what I'll do when summer comes. Mom gets the most worried during summer, when I'm in my room. I'm not trying to isolate, I just never get invited to things. And going to places like the mall alone is my worst nightmare, especially if that means spending Mom's hard-earned money and talking to people who I don't know and who don't know me.

Mom will cry hard. But she's not here. She doesn't exist here. She won't find me dead.

I shake my head at the image of her at my funeral, eyes bloodshot and dry from crying. Her hair would be freshly washed, but if she had nowhere to be, it would be unkept and she'd be on the couch all day watching the home videos my Dad took back when he was good. Back when we were all happy. When I was happy.

I'll never be able to replicate those days. No matter how much I act like a child, I'll never be one ever again. And it's sad to think that my peak was at four. 

I just need to act my age. Really, I do. Maybe if I did things would be way different than what they are now. Who am I kidding - of course things would be way different. There is no maybe there.

The maybes are: Maybe I should ask Akiko for tips (she seems to know her age). Maybe Cade will wake up and see me like this. Maybe I should move the date up. Maybe I wanted what Riley did to me. Maybe I should have screamed. Maybe I should have pushed him away. Maybe I should talk more often. Maybe I should find my voice. maybe--

I cut my list off. Too many maybes. Too many uncertainties.

I press the blade into my skin. Drag. I watch for a second. Watch it grow blotchy and pink. Watch the blood surface.

Then it pours, the blood. Trickles away from me, dropping onto the towel below. I grab the wet spot of the towel and press it against the wound, wincing. I release a breath, shaky but quiet. Cutting is the least painful thing in my life.