Scarred

6. Promise

Dan

Phil wanted to do something together every day, anything, that would make me happy. I didn't care what we did, as long as we did it together. Being with him felt like pure bliss.

And I felt happy when I was with him. I smiled, and I laughed with him and had the most fun I ever had.

But every night I was afraid to fall asleep. Phil didn't fall asleep until I did, and he would hold me in his arms every night. But even Phil couldn't protect me from my nightmares.

 

I woke up, crying. It was in the middle of the night and I was shaking all over. It didn't take long for Phil to be woken by my sobs.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked concerned.

I shook my head, not being to able to talk because of my crying, and pulled his body even closer to mine.

I don't know how long we lay there, my tears rolling over his chest; it could have been ten minutes, an hour or maybe even longer. 

Phil looked at me, his blue eyes filled with concern while I wiped away my tears. "Did you have a bad dream?" he asked.

I couldn't tell him. I couldn't tell him about my nightmares that returned every night. He was already trying so hard to help me and make me feel safe. He couldn't help me with this and he would only worry more if I told him.

"No," I lied, "I'm okay."

I was a terrible liar.

"Dan, you are definitely not okay!"

I should tell him, I knew that. But I couldn't.

 

I locked the bathroom door behind me. Phil was asleep; I had somehow managed to escape his  arms that held me close to him. I looked through random cabinets until I found what I was looking for. He wouldn't miss one of them, I thought.

I picked up the razor blade and made a cut in my right wrist. It hurt, and I had to make sure not to wake Phil, so no screaming, I said to myself.
My hands were shaking when I made another cut. Blood dripped in the sink.

It hurt, but I welcomed the pain. It took my mind of all the things I didn't want to think about: my depressing thoughts, my nightmares...

Just when I made another cut, someone knocked on the door. Startled, I dropped the razor blade in the sink.

"Dan?" I heard Phil's voice. "What are you doing?"

"I'm on the toilet," I replied while I quickly tried to clean the sink, but it was no use: more blood was dripping out of my wrist.

Phil didn't sound convinced. "Dan, are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'll be with you in a minute," I said. I threw the razor blade away and washed the blood off my wrist. Then I wrapped my wrist in a bandage, which I had found in a first aid kit and continued washing the sink.

When there was no more blood to be seen, I unlocked the door and stepped outside. Phil was standing next to the bathroom door and he immediately saw the bandage around my wrist. "What happened?" he asked. I didn't answer, and didn't have the courage to meet his eyes. I think the worst part was that he didn't even sound mad.

"Sorry," I whispered, and I felt a tear roll down my cheek. When would I ever stop crying?

Phil hugged me and kissed my cheek. "Just know," he said, "It will get better. I promise."