The Lies He Spoke

EIGHT

[Warning: mentions of self harm]

LOGAN

Logan stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the dark half-circles under his eyes, the permanent scowl that was fixed to his lips. He bent and spit toothpaste into the sink, bracing his hands against the basin.

His arms hurt with the slight pressure, his elbows shaking slightly under his shoulders. These days, he could hardly make himself get up from bed and take his bike first to Olivia's school, then his, and then make the return trip to her school and home.

Night after night, he lay awake in bed, wondering if Elijah was okay, imagining the horrors he could face in prison, and reliving every single awful thought he had had these past few years as if that would help him find out why Elijah wouldn't let him help. All those sleepless nights were beginning to take their toll.

Logan rubbed his eyes and bent down to take his razor and shaving cream from the bathroom cabinet. He set them both by the faucet and turned on the water, splashing cold water into his face to remain alert.

He reached for the cream and his hand stopped as it neared the razor, the dim bathroom light glinting off the shiny, sharp metal.

He was no stranger to the blade. For nearly two years, he had used blades almost identical to this, leaving slim, deep scars all over his arms. He was careful to hide it at first, and careful to hide it even after he stopped, but eventually he tried his best to not think about trying it ever again.

But he only needed a little bit of relief, just for a few seconds. He only needed to be able to breathe for a few moments, so he didn't feel like he was choking on air and memories all the time.

He needed to let go of some of the building pressure pounding under his skin every single second of every single day.

Just for once, he wanted to feel fucking normal, like all the other people in the world who never had to think twice about rolling out of bed and going about their day, alive and well and wanting to keep going. He wanted to be that so badly he would almost give anything right now.

A knocking jerked him from his thoughts and he realized with horror that the razor was no longer on the sink but in his hands, and he dropped it like it was burning his fingers. It clattered noisily in the sink.

"Logan?" Olivia's voice was muffled through the door. "What are you doing in there? It's already seven fifteen! We're going to be late!"

The blue razor lay next to the drain, deceivingly unassuming. Logan tore his eyes from it and tried to remember what Olivia was talking to him about.

Late. We're going to be late.

He swallowed hard and pressed his fingers into his eyes. "Just go and start the bike. I'll be there in two minutes," he said.

"Okay, but hurry." The soft thumps of her socked feet on the wood moved away from the bathroom door.

And Logan was left with himself again.

"Shit," he whispered under his breath, staring at the razor in the sink like it was about to come alive any second and skin him. He clenched his fists together, the scars on his forearms straining white against his pale skin.

Logan squeezed his eyes shut, reached blindly for the razor, and when he felt the rubber grip under his thumb, he quickly flung it all the way to the back of the shelf and slammed the cabinet door shut. He splashed more water in his face and left the bathroom, yanking the door shut behind himself.

He could grow a beard all the way down to his knees for all he cared.

*****