The Right Moves (The Game #3)(18)
Author: Emma Hart

It was all I knew for so long. Cutting was my escape, the way to let the pain out. The pain left with the blood, it trickled out with the sting and washed away. But now I have other ways to deal with the pain.

Other ways I still don’t fully understand. Other ways I’m still learning about.

And that uncertainty scares me, because I know how strong the urges can be.

I spray some shaving foam into the palm of my hand and begin to work it into my wet legs, massaging my calves and knees. When my legs are white, I rinse my hands off under the tap and pick up the razor.

My fingers hover over the guard. Am I really ready to do this? Was Mom right? Am I still too “damaged” to even shave my legs?

Am I really strong enough to keep the demons at bay? To resist making my blood flow?

My fingertips close down on the guard, making my decision for me, and pull it off. I take a deep breath as I rest my foot against the side of the bath and touch the razor to my skin. Sickness balls in my stomach as I lightly drag the razor up my shin, but I’m not sure what the sickness is from.

Fear? The urge? The possibility and knowledge I could let it all out, that I could let it go?

I train my eyes on the blade as if my steady, intense gaze will make it behave. Like the blade is the one to blame for it all. Like I never cracked a razor under my foot and dragged the sharp piece of metal across my skin. Like it was never me at all.

Shave. Rinse. Shave. Rinse. Shave. Rinse.

I go through the motions on my right leg, my eyes harsher than a mother’s glare at a child who just scribbled on her newly-painted walls. I swap my legs, using breathing exercises Dr. Hausen taught me before I came home.

Swallow. Shave. Rinse. Deep breath. Shave. Rinse.

The longer I hold the razor in my hand the more uncertain I become of myself. What will I do with it after? Will I throw it in the trash? Will I hand it to mom to get rid of? Will I just clean it and leave it on the side of the bathtub?

So many questions that demand answers swirl in my brain, blurring my vision and clouding my mind. Each becomes louder and louder until the uncertainty becomes booming shouts pounding between my ears instead of soft whispers in the corners of my mind. My grip tightens around the razor as I try to breathe evenly, try not to let the anxiety overtake me. Anxiety breeds depression. Depression breeds pain. Pain breeds-

A nick on my ankle. A tiny cut, one that is barely visible to the eye. This I know without looking. I can feel the sting, the red hot burn of my blood mixing with the air.

Pain breeds blood.

My grip tightens again, and I grab the towel rail with my free hand. I shake, feeling a tiny trail of blood trickle down from my ankle and along the curve of my foot.

The smallest cuts always bleed the most.

I remember the first time I made myself bleed. The night flashes before my eyes, and I finally remember why I did it. It’s the one question I haven’t been able to answer. The why. Why did I cut myself? What made me do it? The searing question that constantly surrounds me and my favored coping mechanism.

The coping mechanism that started with a nick on the ankle.

We had argued relentlessly. For hours, it seemed. A constant back and forth, the way it always was when it came to him needing to get his fix. I wanted him to stop this time. I promised him I would help him – whatever he needed. He said all he needed was the drug and that I could get him that.

I refused. I wasn’t his servant – I was his girlfriend and I was determined to help him. I knew this wasn’t Pearce deep down. I knew the real Pearce and I knew he was buried under all the pain and addiction somewhere. I knew the real Pearce was broken and mourning the loss of his mother.

He didn’t agree. He reached his boiling point. I should have known by then to leave – to run as fast as I damn well could and get as far away from him as possible. I knew in his comedown, his craving stage, he was the most volatile. I knew all that mattered to him was the drug – whichever it was that day – and getting more.

But I never did run. I still held onto the memory of his calmest comedown, the one where he cried on my lap for hours. The one where he cried himself to sleep. I always waited for that comedown to happen again, but it never did.

He wasn’t always violent. That night, he was. He’d slammed me into the wall as he’d left his apartment and sprained my wrist. Mom and Dad had been away on a business meeting in Boston, so when I arrived home, I was free to cry. Free to let it all out without question.

I had cried under a hot shower, letting my tears mix with the water, and grabbed my razor to shave my legs. It was there, the hot water beating on my back as I bent over, my foot on the side of the bath, my leg covered in shaving foam, that I cut my ankle.

It bled immediately. The bright red blood mixed with the white of the foam that had dripped onto my foot, the pink mixture hitting the water. More blood fell, and I watched, transfixed. I watched until my brain registered the sting. The sting that was stronger than the one inside. The sweet sting of release.

I didn’t think as I smacked the razor against the tiles, cracking the plastic. My nimble fingers pulled it apart, letting the plastic drop to the ground.

The blade was cool between my fingers. Wet, but cool. I ran my finger along the sharp edge, staring at the still bleeding cut on my ankle. My back pressed against the tiles, and I slowly slid down to the floor. My foot still rested on the side of the bath.

The blade moved towards it, my hand acting of its own accord. It touched my skin, lightly at first, then stronger. My hand shook, and I bit my lip to stop the whimper as it broke my skin. A tiny dot of blood bubbled up on my foot. My eyes moved from the blade to the blood. My teeth released my lip, and my hand moved.

The blade sliced smoothly along my foot. The sting, the burn. It was all I knew. All I could focus on. The bright red, the scarlet blood mixing with the clearness of the water. Mixing perfect with pain. Tainting it. Destroying it.

The same way Pearce was destroying me.

I can’t breathe. My chest is too tight, the lump in my throat too big. My teeth are clamped too tightly around my tongue, hoping the small pain there will override the urges.

The frantic shake of my hands leads me to almost drop the razor, but the tightness of my grip means the handle is firmly in place. I remember it, that moment I realized for the first time that it was freeing to bleed. There was no limit. I could cut once, twice, three times, keep bleeding for minutes, and the physical pain would take over the emotional. It would wipe it out.

More blood trickles down my foot, going in a different direction and landing on the white tiled floor. The blood taints the floor the same way it tainted the shower water that first time.