Page 246 of Disarm
My hand shakes. I press down, not hard enough to do real damage. Just enough to break the surface. A thin red line beads up, bright and sudden.
It hurts.
Thank God.
Pain I can understand.
My breath stutters. My heart kicks like it’s trying to escape.
You could stop.
You could throw it away. You could walk into the living room and call Miguel and say, “I messed up. I need help. I’m scared.” I picture his face when he walks through the door and sees… whatever this would be. The horror. The way he’d replay it for years. The way he’d blame himself for not leaving work early. For not reading between the texts.
“If I do this halfway,” I whisper, “I put that on him again.”
The logic is warped, I know it is. Somewhere between my brain and my mouth, everything has been flipped. If I don’t survive, he hurts forever, another part of me argues. Maybe just cut your losses?—
The room tilts and the noise is doing that thing where the volume jumps up and down like a kid playing with the radio knob. Snatches of Miguel’s voice bleed through the static.
You’re allowed to be here.
We’re not a test.
One day at a time.
I love you.
“I’m sorry,” I say to the empty room and the words burn in my throat.
To my dad, for every time I disappointed him. To Celeste, for every gray hair my existence added, even if she’d never admit it that way. To Dr. K, for every note she’s taken with my name on it.
To Miguel, most of all.
“I’m so sorry, Miggy,” I whisper. “I tried. I swear to God, I tried.”
My hand moves. Not the way it did years ago—no dramatic gesture, no theatrical slice. Just… a clumsy, uncoordinated drag. The skin splits and the pain is sharp and immediate, but my body is already heavy, already slow. Blood wells up, more this time, trickling warmly over my palm.
I watch it for a second, detached.
At least this will make it quiet, I think.
My head lolls to the side, and the blade slips from my fingers, landing silently onto the duvet. It leaves a little streak like punctuation.
The room pulls away from me, like someone’s yanking it down a hallway.
My body tips sideways on the bed. My injured arm flops, smearing red on the sheet. My eyelids are sandbags, I can’t keep them open.
Miguel’s face swims up behind my eyes.
Not crying. Not horrified.
Laughing in the kitchen with a wooden spoon microphone.
Sleepy and soft in bed, murmuring, “Love you more.”
Sunlight on his curls at the beach last summer, grin wide and easy.
“I love you,” I try to say, but my tongue won’t cooperate.
