Saving Amaya

Chapter 4

I walked out of the party and over to my house. Now is the only time that I am grateful for living next to that asshole. I may hate being anywhere near him, but I hate exercise more. Sure, I'm in sports, but there is nothing worse than running. Running and trying to have an intellectual conversation with Ava are the closest things to Hell on Earth. I'm more of a weight lifter myself. There's something therapeutic about it for me. And the soreness afterwards is a sort of familiar pain.

When I walk into my house, Liam is pacing back and forth, Samantha is comforting a crying Claire, and Ali just looks pissed. They are standing on the tile of my foyer, not moving towards the carpet of the living room. Probably to avoid getting paint all over my house, which I am thankful for. They all freeze and look at me when I walk through the door.

"Guys. . . I'm so sorry. This whole night is my fault. I just wanted to prove to that bottle blonde bitch that we aren't any different than them." I look down and shake my head. "Because of my ego you all got hurt. I never should have trusted Blake."

Liam walks over to me and puts a hand on my arm. "Hey, this isn't your fault. This is all the fake weirdos over there faults."

"Yeah but-"

"No buts! If you want to make it up to us, which you really don't have to, just get us some towels and let us use your shower." Sam interjects. I smile at my friends. These dorks mean the world to me and I love them.

"Okay fine, but I'll still make it up to you guys!" I shout over my shoulder as I turn towards the linen closet near the kitchen. Grabbing several towels, I start throwing them at my friends. "So there's a shower on this floor, one in my parents room, my room, the guest room and the third floor. So we should all be able to get washed up pretty fast."

Claire's jaw drops when I start listing the bathrooms. "How many people live here? Jeez!" We laugh and I instruct them to take off their shoes and leave them at the door. Carefully, we make it through the house, showing everyone where the bathrooms are. Luckily, they all packed for a sleepover anyway so they have a change of clothes.

Finally, I make it to my room and grab a change of clothes. Some fluffy pajama pants and a sweatshirt will do. I head into my bathroom and get the shower started. While it's heating up, I pause to take my makeup off in my mirror. But the person looking back at me gives me a pause. It's me, I cognitively know that. But she isn't me. Her face is flushed with booze, hair messy from a party, and her eyes are dead. There is no light in her eyes. She's barely alive.

She got her friends hurt. She left them alone when she said she would protect them. She did it. It's her fault. And I hate her for it. I hate her. I hate me.

My eyes reflexively glance at the drawer at the bottom of my sink. The one with my lifeline. My lifeline that is killing me everyday. My friends are here, I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. But it's my addiction. I have to. With shaking hands, I grab the small, inconspicuous box that holds it. The small blade. I haven't even done it yet and the guilt is already eating away at my chest, making my heart heavy. But I deserve this punishment. For what I did to my friends. I hurt them. It was me. I deserve every ounce of pain.

My mirror starts fogging and blurring my image of myself, so I decide that it's time to get in. But that means I have to take off my clothes. My protection from myself. After that I'm left vulnerable to every attack I inflict on myself. I grip the blade so tightly I fear I'll leave a cut on my hand in a place people will be able to see. But the anger and sadness in my blood prevents me from letting up.

The water is scalding hot. I don't deserve hot water, not after what I've done, so I turn the handle to the coldest the water can get. What a waste of my time, waiting for the water to heat up. Looking at the small piece of metal, I envision the day I'll kill myself. I mean, that's probably how I'll die right? I should do it before anyone else does. I've dreamed of that day for years, but something always keeps me from doing it. It's not my family, they would probably be happier if I die. Probably my friends too, then people would leave them alone. But the hope that maybe one day I'll want to keep living makes me pause. That day still hasn't come, but I'll keep waiting for it.