Page 245 of Disarm
Not what he meant. I know that. But my brain, twisted little translator that it is, turned it into proof.You are work.
“If you call him, he’ll come,” the radio whispers. “He always comes.”
“And then what?” Another voice snaps. “Another cycle. Another safety plan. Another sleepless month. You’re just pushing the inevitable further down the road.”
I unscrew the cap.
The smell of chalk and pharmacy powder hits my nose.
This is a bad idea.
No shit.
It’s also the only one that sounds like rest.
I don’t count them, I don’t want to know the number.
Just tipping some into my palm. For a second, the sight of them, little white circles against my skin, making something crack open in my chest. My throat closes and my vision blurs momentarily.
You could stop.
You could text. Email. Walk your ass to the ER and say, “I’m not safe.”
I close my hand.
“It’ll be quieter,” I whisper. “Just… quiet, for once.”
My mouth is dry. The first swallow catches in my throat and comes with a surge of instinctive panic.Too late to call now,my brain says.You’ve already done it. Dragging someone into this now would just hurt them more.
I take more.
The edges of the world go fuzzy. My heart is beating too fast and too slow at the same time, like it can’t decide which emergency to pick.
I put the bottle down in the sink.
My hands are shaking now.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, the safety plan is screaming.
Call. Tell someone. No negotiating.
I step back into the hallway toward the bedroom, where the box with the blades is where it always is—the bottom drawer of my nightstand, under old jerseys and a sweatshirt I should’ve thrown out years ago.
Backup plan from a darker time.
Miguel’s never known otherwise, he’d have tossed them.
I sit on the edge of the bed and open it, staring at the silver gleaming up at me. The scars on my wrist look pale and raised in the afternoon light. Old white lines over lightly golden, sun-kissed skin. A map of every time I came close and then, somehow, didn’t.
My vision swims and my head feels light.
“This is for insurance,” I tell myself. My voice sounds far away. “In case… the quiet takes too long.”
Morbid.
More like efficient.
I hold the blade with numb fingers. The metal is cold against the old scar tissue.
