Page 43 of Luna

The true danger is that with pain comes darkness. The kind that settles in the between my bones and feels heavy. All consuming.

The undulating, undeniable need to take control of something swarms beneath my skin.

I glance toward the bathroom and think about the razor in the shower. My fingers go to my leg. I lift up the towel and look down at the silvery scars on my thigh.

I’d like to say it has been a long time since I hurt myself.

It has not.

Just before Steven disappeared, I gave in to the urges that used to consume me daily and are now confined to my darkest most desperate days.

But I can’t do that here, can I?

He’d smell the blood.

He’d know, and what if this time he couldn’t control himself?

I let out a frustrated sigh and lean forward, scraping my fingers through my hair.

When I stand, I pull my underwear and my jeans back on, then wrap the blanket around my chest. I hang the towel on the hook behind the bathroom door and study my reflection in the mirror, trying not to make eye contact with the razor by the sink.

Through the condensation, my skin looks smoother and more palatable than usual.

I wipe some of the condensation away with the corner of the blanket, revealing a clearer view of myself. My blonde curls are a mess, frizzy and untamed without product to keep them in check. I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with my hair — it’s unique, but often unruly.

Right now, it looks like a flock of birds have been nesting in it.

I reach for my glasses and as soon as I lift them to my face, they fog up slightly. My blue eyes peer back at me through the mist. I’ve never considered my eyes particularly striking, but they’re probably the feature I like the most. Especially if I use a little makeup.

I’m not a heavy makeup kind of person, but mascara and eyeliner are my go-to.

Right now, the remnants of yesterday’s makeup are smudged beneath my eyes. I push my glasses on top of my head and dampen some tissue paper to try and remove the stains on my face.

It doesn’t work. The smudges just get bigger.

I sigh and brush my fingers over my flushed cheeks. Still pink from the heat of the shower.

My skin is usually pale, with a smattering of freckles across my nose and cheeks. No amount of sun seems to give me a tan, just more freckles. But I’ve learned to accept them as part of my look.

Beneath the makeup, I notice the dark circles under my eyes, a testament to the lack of sleep over the past twenty-four hours.

I stand up straighter and flex my fingers at my sides.

My arms ache.

I flex them, too. As if stretching might help.

As I move, the blanket slips a bit, and I catch a glimpse of my curves. I’m not skinny, never have been. I have big hips, a big bum, and a rounded stomach, definitely more padding than society typically deems ideal.

Definitely more than Steven deemed appropriate.

Sighing, I adjust the blanket and turn away from the mirror. I hate that he is still in my head even though he’s gone.

I close my eyes for a moment and recall the memory of the video Lucien showed me. I think about Steven’s face, and his piss-stained pants, and the pathetic mumbled apology that became more and more desperate as he tried to save his own life.

Frustration blooms in my gut.

For the first time, I feel angry that he is gone. Not because I miss him but because I should have been the one to stand up to him and make him apologize.