there goes my heart - j.s

chapter twenty

TRIGGER WARNING
THERE IS SELF HARM IN THIS CHAPTER.
please do not read if you do not feel you can handle this, put yourself first.

—

[10 and a half months since joe left]

I text Joe 5 simple words. My fingers are shaking and my stomach is in knots; but apart from that, I feel numb. So, utterly and completely numb, like a shell of a person. Shakily, I pick up the blade from the sink counter. A small silver object pinched harshly between my fingers. Bitten fingernails and pale skin contrasted again aching metal. I push any hesitant thoughts away, I push them further and further, choking down the last ounce of caution and focus on the full numb that has taken over me.

(T/W: self harm)

I sink that small silver blade into my wrist, then drag it across, letting crimson ink leak out. The pain feels right. The pain understands me. So let it understand me more. I let the pain latch onto me; become me. I dig the blade into a different place on my wrist. Blood, thick red trails of blood, comes dribbling out of the cuts and rolls around my wrist.

I don't stop.

I can't stop. It's too addictive. Each swipe of the blade across my skin, leaves me aching for more. I can't help but think of how people make sad and painful things into something poetic and beautiful. I can't help but want to laugh. There is nothing beautiful about this, about me. Maybe my blood is trickling into puddles like split crimson ink, but maybe it's just blood; dark red blood. People shouldn't have the right to make my pain into poetry, not anymore. My pain is pain, and my blood is blood, and I can no longer ignore either.

The last thing I remember is the blade slicing my wrist again, and again, each time deeper and longer than the previous. Yearning, each time, for a sharper sting, a harsher pain, finally thankful to feel something. Pain, yes, but pain is better than numb. I couldn't give that up.
And then, blackness.

Complete and utter blackness.
This is it. This is what I deserve. Perhaps this is what I wanted. Maybe, making pain into poetry was never the problem. All that blood was so red, and maybe it was beautiful. Maybe the problem was never accepting the fact that before it became poetry, it was the deepest pain I had ever felt.

I feel lighter already, like I'm floating on a cloud. Is this what happiness feels like? No, this is freedom.

—

[georgia's pov]

I sigh tiredly as walk along the pavement. My feet ache from a long day and no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to fill my lungs with enough air. But I need to see Adeline. She's been refusing to see me again and I know she won't be taking her pills. I feel truly sympathetic for her. I'm trying to help but she's the kind of person who refuses help; who pushes people away even when they have her best interests at heart. I knock on her door and wait to hear the footsteps padding towards the door. Nothing. Maybe she's asleep, maybe she's out. I doubt both of those things. I knock again and call out her name. Nothing. I ring her phone, and she doesn't answer. Starting to worry I look for a spare key. In the plant pot. Under the mat. It's nowhere. I don't know what to do. Suddenly another place where it could be pops into my head. I know it's a long shot but it might just be in there. I walk over to her letter box, crossing my finger and hoping, I will with everything I have that it's in there.
I lift up the lid and tucked away is the key. Golden, and slightly rusted but I could just about kiss it. Quickly heading back to the front door, the sinking feeling returns. It's almost as if I can sense something's wrong. Dear God, I hope she is okay.