The Struggle (The Things We Can't Change Book 2) (15 page)

I slowly open my eyes to look down at my left hand and recoil before I can help myself. I’m bleeding; big, fat drops of blood dripping onto the dark wood of the desk from a long, deep cut on the side of my palm. I can only stare, mesmerized, for a long moment before I snap out of it and grab a tissue, mentally cursing as I hold it to the cut and clumsily try to clean the blood off the desk while staunching the flow of blood.

My movements slow, then stop completely when I see what I cut myself on. It’s Dad’s letter opener. Not a letter opener, really, but more a decorative knife he uses for that purpose. I can remember when he got it; it was a thank you from some benefit or another that he had coordinated. It was just before he’d married Clarissa, and we’d gotten home and laughed about it for at least a week. The dumb thing had ended up on his desk as a letter opener, because he always complained he was so prone to paper cuts. The edges were only slightly dulled; I could now attest to that.

I stare at the knife, and then look at my hand. I stare at the long cut in a kind of spellbound fascination, peeling away the wad of tissues. Blood oozes and wells up, and even though I get a flash of lightheadedness at the sight of it, I can’t look away. It amazes me that the blood is still red, still looks so normal. I still feel dirty, all the time, and I can’t scrub it away because it comes from inside me, is a dirtiness carried along in my bloodstream, something I’m unable to clean. I feel I’ll never be able to shake it.

And yet… I look from the knife, to my hand, and back. My fascination is hypnotic and all-consuming as I stare. I’ve heard of people who did it, of course. Even known one or two at school, though we had never talked about it or anything. I had never understood the draw, how someone could do that to themselves. Even at my lowest points with Tony, I had never wanted it. My goal wasn’t to replace the pain; it was only to keep myself grounded so I
could
experience it, because I deserved it.

Now… I see it in my mind’s eye, being opened, letting out some of the poisoned blood. Getting it out of me. Maybe it would help. Maybe getting some of it out of me would help me feel clean again. It was a way to actually expel it, cleanse it, cleanse
me
.

Yeah, and bleeding people with leeches in the Dark Ages helped them, didn’t it?
asks my common sense, whom I ignore.

Release. Cleanliness. Freedom. It’s all that I want so desperately. As if in a trance, I reach down and slowly, carefully, pick up the knife in my good hand. I bring it up before my eyes to stare at it more closely. Release. Release some of the poisoned, tainted blood from me. Erase the feeling of floating away, stay grounded, keep suffering. Fingernails and fist pounding is no longer keeping me here, sufficient pain to keep me grounded. What if I need more?

Yes. It’s what I want. It seems to be the only way to achieve everything I need, all I want. I keep staring at the knife, spellbound. Watch it come closer to me. Closer. I lift my already-injured hand.

And then there’s a loud explosion of music and I drop the knife and it falls with an ear-deafening clatter. I take a moment to catch my breath, then dig one handed in my purse for my ringing cell phone. I mutter a few choices words as blood drips from my hand again, the thin tissue soaked through. The spell is broken now, and
damn
, the cut hurts.

Finally, I find my phone and answer it. “Hey, Dad, I’m sorry. I just forgot, I was… having a moment.”

It takes me a few minutes to talk him down, and I endure the small, I’m-Not-Mad-Just-Worried lecture. Then he promises to be home soon and we hang up. I drop the phone into my purse, wad up more tissues on my hand, and finally, without really meaning to, my gaze falls back to the knife. I’m filled with horror and disgust at myself and what I almost did.

I realize it won’t help. It won’t make Tony’s grip on me ease. I’d thought I was getting better, stronger, recovering. I’m not. It’s all a lie. I’m weak, just like Zeke said. And I’ll never learn to stand on my own.

I slowly begin to back away from the knife, unable to look away. It’s ugly now, so repulsive, and yet I can’t stop. I keep backing up, around the desk, through the room. Then I hit the door and I turn and flee. I swear I can hear the stupid thing laughing at me as I retreat, knowing what a coward I am.

Ezekiel

38

It’s pouring outside the next day, and I get a phone call from Dr. Parker telling me that I can have the day off, because there’s no point in me coming over while it’s raining. A three day weekend. Perfect. I consider what to do with my free time as I cook myself breakfast, even generously make enough coffee for my dad, though he doesn’t bother to say thank you when he comes down, dressed for work.

He’s already in a bad mood and I know it’s because the rain means that he’ll have to spend the day inside doing paperwork. My dad is a doer, not a thinker or a writer. He’d much rather be outside in the ninety-degree heat pounding nails than inside writing up reports or filing. He pours his coffee into a thermos and leaves the house. The door slams closed behind him and I’m left alone.

I kick around the house a bit, cleaning up a little because the mess annoys me. Then I head upstairs to my room and clean up the disaster there, glad not to feel any regret over the destruction. I take the garbage out, dashing through the pouring rain, and finally call Koby, because I know he’s off today as well. He comes and picks me up and I spend the afternoon and a good deal of the evening at his house, playing Xbox and gorging on pizza that his mom makes for us. I even squeeze in a nap while we watch television, because we can’t find anything to watch aside from reality TV.

I’m jolted awake around six by a pillow hitting me and sit up quickly, glaring over at Koby. “What the hell?”

“Answer your stupid cell phone, it’s been ringing for the past five minutes,” he says, not looking away from the television screen, where he’s resumed killing zombies on Xbox.

I grope around and finally locate my cell phone. “It’s Cameron,” I say, and Koby rolls his eyes as I answer. “Yeah?”

“So? You coming out tonight or not? Where are you?”

“I’ll be there,” I say, the wall around me suddenly tightening, the coldness inside me lowering a few more degrees as I think of the breakdown I had last night, and the prospect of doing something to ensure beyond all doubt that the feelings are well and truly out of me. I glance over at Koby and he’s paused his game and is looking at me, moving his hand across his throat in a frantic gesture, telling me beyond a doubt to count him out.

“Where are you guys at? I need a ride. You can pick me up in front at the Caribou by my house.”

“We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Cameron says, and I hear him calling to some people in the background.

“Where are we going?” I ask, heaving myself off the couch.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got something good planned, though.”

“I’m not tagging anything,” I say, an unmistakably firm note in my voice.

“Yeah, I got it, Quain. You got scared last time. We won’t make you. This is more of a… team project.”

I roll my eyes and hang up. Cameron isn’t the smartest guy around, but at least he takes my mind off things when I want to be distracted. Koby is still looking at me, and I hold up a hand to stop him when he opens his mouth.

“I don’t want to hear it,” I say, heading him off at the pass.

His mouth stays open for a long beat, and then finally Koby closes it and shakes his head. “Whatever. I don’t know why I’m bothering because you’re a big boy, and in the end its you who will have to suffer the consequences.”

“Damn straight,” I agree. “Now, are you gonna give me a ride to Caribou, or do you really want Cameron to know where you live? It’s still pouring outside.”

Koby sighs and stands up, and half an hour later I’m dashing back out of Caribou and into Cameron’s shitty Ford Escort. I settle onto the stained back seat and light up a cigarette, since the three others in the car are already smoking. It’s Cameron and two of his friends, two guys I only vaguely know from prior parties, Kendal and Tyler. I don’t even know their last names, just that they’ve been graduated from high school for a while and work at a bar downtown, but I give them a nod which they return as we drive off.

“Where are we going?” I ask, blowing smoke out through the cracked window and into the nighttime sky. The rain has finally eased and everything is dripping, cars
swishing
past through all the puddles.

“You’ll see,” Cameron says, and up in the front seat, he and Kendal exchange a look and a smile.

I roll my eyes but stay alert as we drive out of Grandview and into Dublin. Just in case, I pass on the joint they’re all sharing, and wish I’d offered to drive. I may wall myself off from emotions, make stupid choices as far as my friends and graffiti, but I usually do my best to avoid driving while I’m drinking or high. If it comes down to running tonight, I’m going to make sure that I am not the one who gets caught this time.

I can tell by the girly giggles from the three guys that they’ve been at it for several hours now, and even though I’m feeling just slightly worried, I can’t deny that a part of me is loving the fear-fueled adrenaline rush I’m getting at Cameron’s slightly erratic driving. It’s just what I need to keep myself in perspective. We finally park in the lot of a Speedway and all unload from the car. I try and ask once again where we’re going, since I’m not completely familiar with the area, but Cameron just shakes his head and we start walking.

We’re in a nice area of Dublin, along a street that reminds me of Grandview Avenue, with café’s and pubs and coffee shops, all of which are crowded with people since its Friday night. We pass a small sports bar and the door opens for a moment, allowing smoke and the sound of laughter and pool and ESPN to spill out, the door closing and silencing just as quickly.

We walk two blocks and then pause on a street corner, slightly distanced from the main, well-lit part of the street. Cameron, Kendal and Tyler are pausing to light up again, but I don’t bother and look around instead. A big, one-story brick building is behind us, and I squint in the darkness to make out the sign in front of it.
Parker Pediatrics, Obstetrics & Gynecology
.

Oh, hell fucking no.

I back away quickly, pointing at Cameron. “I told you I wasn’t going to tag anything tonight. If you think I’m going to tag Dr. Parker’s
business
, you’re out of your mind.”

“Calm down, cool your shit, Quain,” Cameron says, and he’s laughing, almost bent double, even though I find nothing funny about the situation. “I said we weren’t going to make you paint tonight and I meant it. Trust me, we’re not touching this building. I swear to you. Come on, follow me.”

They start to go up the sidewalk and around the back of the building, and I hesitate to follow. Survival instinct tells me I should go while the going is good. The other part of me, the seventeen year old teenager and the part that loves the rush of doing something dangerous and unlawful, is begging me to disregard those instincts and follow.

“Coming, Quain?” Tyler calls, and I tell my feet to move and before I realize it, I’m following them around the side of the building and into a back alley.

They’re slightly ahead of me and by the time I turn the corner, Cameron is lounging against a sleek navy Porsche that I recognize easily as Dr. Parker’s, as I’ve become well acquainted with his half-dozen cars over the last few weeks. The alley is dim, lit only by a street lamp that’s several dozen yards away. I can see dumpsters and other trash beyond the Porsche, backing the dead end of the alley.

I frown at Cameron. “What’s going on? You better get off Dr. Parker’s car. I doubt he wants your fingerprints on it.”

The three of them laugh, and Cameron moves to the driver’s side door and opens it, though I notice that he’s careful to use the hem of his shirt to cover his hand and not leave prints. He gestures grandly at the open door.

“How do you feel about a ride in the lap of luxury, Quain?”

There’s a long silence as I stare at Cameron incredulously. Then I laugh a little and shake my head. “I’m sorry, I could have sworn that you just suggested we
steal
a fucking Porsche.”

“Not steal,” Cameron corrects. “
Borrow
. Borrow, and then drop off at a fun location for Dr. Parker to find a little later. Hell, maybe we’ll even leave it at his house for him. Come on, Zeke. I thought you liked to live on the edge.”

“I do,” I reply, still incredulous. “But I like to live on the edge outside of jail, thanks. I escaped last time by the skin of my teeth. There’s no way.” I glance at the back door of the building, a new worry occurring to me. “What if he walks out here and sees us?”

“He’s at a benefit at the club tonight. Besides, it’s past seven, the office closed at noon today. He must have caught a ride or something.”

I shake my head. “No. I’m not going, Cameron. This is stupid.”

I start to turn away, but before I can fully turn around, Cameron’s hand dips around his back and he pulls out a gun and levels it at me. I freeze, my ears suddenly roaring as I stare at the gun, even more incredulous than when he suggested we steal the car. Kendal and Tyler are slightly behind him, arms crossed over their chests as they stare at me along with Cameron.