“FUCK!” I throw the bottle against the wall. Lollies rain down on the marble floor.
How could she do this? Why would she do this? The last few months come crashing down on me all at once: carving up the kitchen bench in the loft, the excessive drinking, the arguments, the desperate need she had to get out of Sugartown, the dope smoking, the late nights she’s been putting in at the shop coming home fucking reeking of it, what happened tonight with Mace, and the cutting.
Was it all a cry for help that I was just too fucking stupid to see?
I rake my hands through my hair and sit down hard. I replay everything over in my head, all the signs I should have seen—they were all there. All the things I should have done, or paid attention to. The worst part is that what we have, what we’ve built here has been tainted by her lies and her disease. How can I trust her now? Her deceit eats at me; her illness rips my heart right out of my chest.
I glance around the bathroom at the Tic Tacs on the floor and the drawer full of beauty supplies that have all been up ended. A little black leather pouch, like a travel manicure set with faded silver Sharpie drawings winks at me from out of the mess. I frown. I don’t know where I’ve seen that before, likely at the loft or here, but that same feeling I just had at finding her pills replaced with mints is practically burning a hole through me, so I lean over and pick it up. I look over the artwork, skulls and roses, done by Pepper’s hand, and they might be looking back at me from faded silver Texta but the design is one I know well: they’re the same roses as the ones adorning her thigh, the ones that cover her scars.
I unzip the case, and my heart sinks. A lump that I can’t swallow down forms in my throat and tears sting my eyes. Several blades are wedged into the frayed elastic holders inside. Their wicked silver edges glint in the lights from the bathroom vanity. I remember where I’d seen the pouch before: on the bed beside her as she lay bleeding out, and my twenty-three-year-old self fought like hell to save her.
I run the tip of my index finger over the edge of the blade. It hurts like hell. Blood wells against my skin and as I set the pouch down on the floor beside me, my heart cracks right down the middle. I stay that way for maybe an hour, leaning up against the vanity, saltwater staining my cheeks and my gut twisted up in knots. And then I gather up the contents of the drawer and place them back inside. I pick up the Tic Tacs and put them back in their bottle, and I take them and the pouch downstairs and wait for her to come home.
THE DOOR is unlocked when I finally walk up the steps to the McMansion. I open it, full of nervous energy. If I’m honest, I half expect Sammy to be waiting on the doorstep with his shit packed. The fact that he’s not both terrifies and relieves me.
The house is so quiet you could hear a mouse squeak, though Coop’s house more than likely came with some crazy laser detection mouse censor that obliterates vermin before they can set foot on the pristine marble floors.
“Sam?” I call quietly, wanting nothing more than to run into his arms, though knowing that it’s pretty unlikely that’s what’s going to happen. There will more than likely be a lot of yelling, and tears, and maybe even a lot more bitter words spoken before we get to that point. And I know it’s what I deserve.
There’s no answer, and for a moment I’m struck dumb with the fear that he’s finally had enough and has left me, but then I round the corner into the living room and see him sitting on the couch, his face ashen, dark circles under his eyes, my bottle of pills and my blade pouch on the coffee table in front of him.
I freeze. My heart hammers against my ribcage. The soles of my feet itch and my blood turns cold. In many ways, coming home and finding him like this, with my blades and my pseudo pills, hurts worse than coming home to find all of his belongings packed. It hurts worse because the pain on his beautiful face is there because of me. I’m the one who put that there, and no matter how long I live I’ll never be able to erase the disappointment on his features from my mind.
“Sit down,” he growls, and though his voice is low, it’s cracking with emotion.
I don’t say anything; I just sort of fall into the chair opposite and begin crying.
“How long?” he demands, and when I say nothing in return he shouts, “HOW FUCKING LONG, PEPPER?”
“How long what?”
“How long have you been off your meds? How long have you been cutting again? How long have you been lying to me and everyone else around you?”
“Four and a half months. I haven’t taken a pill since the night before you ate me out on your futon.” I sniff. “The pouch is the same one I used when you found me in my room all those years ago.”
“The blades are new,” Sam says, and it isn’t a question.
I nod, but I don’t say anything in response. What could I say? Nothing that comes from my mouth could make this better, or easier for him to understand.
“You don’t have new cuts, though. I’ve had you naked beneath me every night for a month. I’d have seen them.”
I look away and pull my skirt up my thigh, exposing the incisions I’d made last night. Sam leans forward, inspecting the damage.
“Jesus Christ.” He shakes his head. “This whole time you’ve been opening those same wounds?”
An involuntary sob escapes my mouth as I take in his words. That’s all I’ve done. All I’ve ever done is open old wounds and watch the blood spill out.
Sam stands up. He’s trembling with rage, and I know if he didn’t feel as though he had to protect me he’d more than likely be throwing shit, and screaming his frustration right now, but he won’t do that in front of me. He won’t risk hurting me. Instead he scrubs his hands down over his face and says, “Why?”
I don’t have an answer for him, so I just cry.
“Fucking hell. Talk to me; tell me why you feel the need to cut yourself. Tell me why you’re hurting the woman I love,” Sam says, and he’s on his knees in front of me now, he’s clutching my thighs with his big hands as though he were trying to hang on to me for dear life, as if at any minute my disease would come and wrench me away from him.
I place my trembling hands against his hair and stroke his golden strands as his huge body shakes with quiet sobs.
“Because I can’t stop.” I murmur.
“I need you to try, Little,” he says, and his voice is a choked whisper that’s so full of pain and raw emotion that I tighten my hold on his hair as the butterflies in my stomach slow, and their wings beat their last. “I need you to stop for me, and I need you to say you’ll go back on the meds.”
I stare down into bright blue eyes that have saved me more times than I could count, and a piece of me dies as I lie and nod my assent. “I’ll try.”
I don’t deserve Sammy Belle. I’ve known it my whole life. Just like I know I’m deserving of the scars I give myself. They’re one thing I know I have earned, for hurting the people I love, for getting so lost in my head that I don’t think about the harm that my self-harm is doing to others.
And that’s the thing; it’s never just about the hurt we inflict upon ourselves. It’s the guilt and shame and the confusion that our loved ones press upon us because they can’t understand why we do it—that’s what makes the vicious cycle spin. That’s the truth at the heart of every kid who’s ever pressed a blade into their flesh; that’s what makes a cutter. It’s not about suicide, and it’s not a cry for attention—if it were, we wouldn’t try to hide it so well. It’s about fighting a battle no one else knows anything about, and no one else will ever understand. It’s about surviving your demons, not letting them eat you alive from the inside out.
But no one who asks “why” ever has the ability to understand the answer, because they’ve never looked inside themselves and hated everything that makes them who they are. They’ve never been filled to bursting with self-loathing and felt the need to cut until it bleeds out of them, to make them clean. They’ve never faced their darkness head on and come to the realisation that no matter what they do, it’ll nev
er be enough to suffocate the monster, so you do the next best thing. You watch it bleed.
I ROLL over and fling my arm across Pepper’s body, pulling her into me, but she’s too soft. I crack one eye open and realise my arm’s not cradling the woman I love, but a pillow instead. I rub at my eyes and sit up in bed. It’s still dark and the house is quiet, save for the sobbing coming from the kitchen. I catapult out of bed and run down the stairs, desperate to find her. Switching on the light, and squinting from the way it burns my eyes, I call out to her. Pepper’s cries grow more cutting the closer I get, and then I round the breakfast bar and find her sitting on the cold white tiles, her head resting back against the cupboard as she sobs, a bloody knife gripped in her trembling hand.
“Jesus, Little. What did you do?”
I grab a tea towel from the rack and press it to the wounds on her leg. I tuck her hair behind her ears and tilt her chin up so she’ll look at me, but I don’t even know if she’s registered that I’m right in front of her. If I’m honest, I don’t know that she’s even noticed that I’ve been right in front of her for years. “Come on, baby. We gotta get you to a hospital.”
She tightens her tiny fist against my bicep, her nails digging into my flesh. I flinch. “No hospitals. Promise me, Sammy, no hospitals.”
I just stare. Her face is white as a sheet, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, and her eyes are so wide, and more vacant than I’ve ever seen them. Beyond her, the garbage bin has been upended all over the floor. The block of knives on the counter rests on its side, one of the four slots empty. She’d been looking for her blades; she thought that I’d thrown them away and when she couldn’t find them, she used the next best thing.
“You can’t take me to a hospital, Sammy. Promise me? Please?” she begs. Her grip tightens on my arm.
Carefully, I ease the knife from her hand and slide it away from us. “Little, you need help. You probably need stitches—”
“Don’t. They’ll lock me up. They’ll send me away, and I’ll never see you again.” Her words are broken by sobs.
“Okay, no hospitals. Just us. I promise.” I hold her in my arms, and try to quiet her with reassuring promises, but the truth is that I’m just as terrified as her, because even though she’s losing it, I’m losing her. And nothing has ever frightened me more.
It’s late when I wake her with kisses the following day. I’m careful not to touch her leg—which she let me clean and bandage last night when I finally carried her upstairs—as I settle into the space between her thighs. I take my time savouring the taste of her, and I bring her to a slow, sweet surrender with my mouth before I slide inside her and make love to her.
It isn’t like any of our other times—there’s no urgency, no anger, no desperation, just love and feeling and the tenuous bond of trust. I must have told her that I love her a thousand times over as I took her body to the precipice and pushed her over the edge. And then I pulled away and took my time in the shower, letting the hot spray needle my flesh.
When I’ve dried off and dressed for the day, I exit the bathroom and find Pepper staring up at the ceiling. Her pink hair is splayed out around her and her eyes have a little more light in them than they did last night. She rolls on her side and smiles at me, and I try to keep my shit together, but my face crumples. I turn away, heading to the dresser, where I pick out a pair of jeans and what looks like a comfortable lightweight jumper. It’s soft, and it matches the colour of her hair.
“Sam?” she whispers, coming up behind me and wrapping her body around mine. I hold tight to her forearms for a while. I can’t say anything. I don’t have the words for how much all of this hurts me.
I turn and clutch her to me for what feels like an eternity and then I sniff and say, “Let’s take a drive.”
Pepper stiffens, but she doesn’t say anything, just wanders off to the shower while I head downstairs to make a coffee that I don’t drink. When she comes down she’s wearing the outfit I picked out for her, which surprises me because if I know Pepper at all, I know that she despises having her choices taken away from her. I lead her out to the truck and then I turn the key in the ignition and drive out of the city.
She’s quiet as I drive. I’m quiet, too. My mind is practically exploding with all the words I want to say, but I lock them all up and stay silent. About an hour from the city as we drive through the lush green hills of the Yarra Valley, the GPS announces that we should turn left in a few hundred metres. Pepper turns to me, no doubt wondering where we’re going. I wish I could say it will be worth the curious excitement on her face. I take the turn and then as we drive past a sign that reads “Break Free Mental Health Clinic” I flip the internal lock on my door, and the metallic clunk of the locks sliding into place echoes through the cab.
“No,” Pepper says in disbelief, and she starts yanking on the handle as I pull the truck to a stop in front of the private clinic that will be her new home for however long it takes her to get better. It doesn’t look like a mental hospital, just a beautiful, big old plantation house, but it still doesn’t mean she’s going to like being here.
“You promised,” she accuses.
I turn to her with tears in my eyes. “We need help, Little.”
“No. I can stop, Sam. It’s just a relapse. I can stop; you can take away the blades, we’ll throw away all the knives and use plastic ones. I’ll go back on my meds. I can do it with you by my side. I’ve never needed help before, just you.”
“This is bigger than us; it’s bigger than I can deal with,” I admit as I stroke her cheek. “I can’t help you any more. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve ever helped you at all.”
“I’m not going in there,” she says, yanking again on the door handle. She scratches at the glass, like a caged animal. “You can’t make me do this, Sammy.”
“No, I can’t,” I say, and as if on cue the one person who can admit her against her will steps out of the house and walks down the stairs towards us.
Holly has obviously been crying. Her pale cheeks are blotchy and her eyes rimmed in red. She looks as if she’s had about as much sleep as I have, which is none at all. Last night, after I’d settled Pepper and taken her to bed, I’d waited until I knew she was sleeping soundly and I’d called Holly. I hated that I wasn’t enough to save her daughter from herself. That I couldn’t be the one to fix her. But I hate the thought of losing her more, so I put my feelings aside and I called her mother, and together we set about saving the girl we love.
Pepper is sobbing as I try to take her in my arms. She lashes out at me and screams, “I’ll never forgive you for this, Sam.”
“Pepper—”
“You promised,” she sobs. “You promised me no hospitals.”
“I know.” I sob too. A part of me just wants to start the engine and take her away from here. I’ve spent so long fixing her, I don’t know how not to. I know how to take her away from the hurt, but I don’t know how to be the source of it. I don’t know how to fix this.
The hospital staff—two huge women that even I wouldn’t take on—knock on the passenger-side window. I flip the switch and unlock the doors, and watch on in horror as they open it and pull her out. She struggles, lashing out against them, but they seem to rein her in quickly, immobilising her as they lead her past her mother.
“I hate you both!” Pepper screams.
My chest squeezes painfully. I close my eyes as my heart cracks right through the centre, right to the core of me. It feels as if my soul is being ripped from my body.
I jump out of the truck; I don’t know what I’m planning to do. I know I can’t do anything for her. I can’t rescue her from those women, and I can’t sit idly by in that truck and watch as the only woman I’ve ever loved is dragged kicking and screaming into the clinic that could save her life. Instead, I sink into a crouch on the grass and I sob like a little kid who just had their whole world ripped away from him.
Holly’s gentle fingers stroke my back. She’s crying wh
en she says, “You did the right thing, Sam.”
“How can this be the right thing when it hurts so fucking much?”
She doesn’t say anything, just continues her stroking, but I can’t handle taking comfort when I just took that all away from Pepper. I took away her right to choose. I took away the possibility of her getting better on her own, surrounded by the people she loved, and I know, as sure as I know I’ll never love another woman the way I do her as long as I live, I know that she will never forgive me for it, and I don’t expect her to.
“I can’t do this,” I say and stand, shrugging off Holly’s hands.
“Sam—”
“I can’t. I’m sorry, Holly,” I say, and I lean into the truck bed and pull out the bag of Pepper’s belongings and toss it on the ground by her feet, then I climb into the car, revving the engine and tearing out of the circular drive. I can barely see through my tears. I can’t breathe, and my chest feels both too full of everything, and completely empty all at once.
Several hundred metres down the road I pull over on the shoulder, and I break apart, because even though it might be the best thing for her, I just betrayed her in the worst way possible. And there’s no coming back from that.
“HEY, LOONEY Toons,” my roommate, Clara, says, as she sits down in the chair opposite us. She throws a gossip magazine down on the table—No Idea, or some shit—and points to it. “Gurrrl, you is famous.”
I roll my eyes at her. Three weeks on and the bitch still grates on my every nerve. I glance at the cover of the magazine, and sure enough, in one of those teeny, tiny boxes on the side there’s a picture of my dad and me hugging in the gazebo, and a caption that reads, “Rock star dad Cooper Ryan’s last bid to save his daughter from heroin”.
Now Leaving Sugartown Page 24
