Page 113 of Graves

This is wrong.

A deafening roar fills my head and makes my body tremble. I grip the sink tightly while every fiber of my being screams to release the unbearable pressure.

“I’ve got it under control,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “I’ve got this.”

Thoughts of Luke and Aran churn up everything I thought I’d fixed.

Have I fallen into both their traps?

How fucking weak I am.

My body screams from its depths. I press a hand to my chest, trying to feel my own warmth, but I’m numb. I feel nothing.

The old urge stirs again.

If I can feel something, the chaos in my head will quiet. I can reclaim control through pain, because the pain belongs only to me.

I yank my sweater over my head and open the drawer under the sink. My hand trembles as I pull out a pack of razor blades from the very back. They’ve been there since I moved in. As if I knew I’d need them someday, I’m relieved I never threw them away.

I sit on the toilet lid, extend my left arm, and search for a spot on the scarred skin. The second I press the blade down, my hand steadies. The pain intensifies with increasing pressure, sucking up the chaos inside me like a whirlwind. All the tension narrows to this one point.

I have the power to release it.

Seeing the blood well up and trickle down the inside of my upper arm brings the relief I desperately needed.

I didn’t want to hurt myself.

I just needed to come down.

Now the pressure is gone. My body feels light again. My heartbeat slows, and a comfortable calm settles in my head.

I’ve got it under control.

I have everything under control.

23

—

Aran

Liam and I work on new songs until the early morning hours. Carried by the high, we move away from my hard, melody-less tracks and land firmly in punk rock territory. I pull out old notebooks full of lyrics, and we use them for the vocals, rewriting them on the spot.

I’m fine using old lyrics. I’m nowhere near ready to share the words that have piled up inside me over the last five years—not even with Liam.

Once the drugs start wearing off, Liam passes out on the studio couch. I grab him a blanket, kill the lights, and then collapse into my own bed, sleeping almost comatose until shortly after noon.

The sound of the shower wakes me. When I open my eyes, Liam is coming out of the bathroom. Wearing nothing but boxers, he stands in the doorway, towel-drying his hair. I notice a few new tattoos on his torso, but none of them could hide the long scar running across his stomach from the motorcycle accident. Just seeing it still makes me shiver.

The thing is twenty centimeters long. He nearly bled out that night.

“Rise and shine!” he says, way too energetic, flashing a wide grin.

I drag myself upright and wipe the sleep from my eyes. “Fuck… what time is it?”

“Time for music! Fox is already waiting.”

I groan at his good mood and wince as I sit on the edge of the bed, my feet hitting the floor. My head is pounding and I’m dehydrated as hell.