by Finn, Emilia
“Lainie?” His soft cry fractures my heart. “Please come back to me. I still have all your things. We can delete the photos and stuff, and I promise I won’t ever take you back there.”
The photos.
The videos.
He has photographic evidence of what I’ve become.
Humiliated. Hurt. Useless.
My throat clogs with a sob I so desperately work to hold back. I want to scream no, but at the same time, I want to go to him. I want to find safety in the danger he is.
Better the devil you know.
I drag a deep breath through aching lungs and walk through the apartment I share with Jess and Kari.
It’s empty.
It’s always empty now.
Jess is off with her boyfriend, and Kari’s off with hers.
I’ve shared an apartment with these girls since freshman year in college, best friends through years of fun and silly drama – but now everyone has left to settle in with their lives.
They don’t need to see my shame. They don’t want me here dragging them down.
They don’t need to see my train wreck.
I walk through my empty apartment and past a spartan living room. It was once loud, colorful, and full of trinkets; we used to live in a hive of scattered shoes, case files, textbooks – law for Jess, nursing for Kari – and stacks of DVDs that would tower perilously near the TV.
As a group, we’d have weekend-long Friends marathons and hate on Ross for being such a wimp all the time. We’d argue over whose turn it was to get the Rachel haircut – because it would be weird if we all did it at the same time. We’d discuss the times we skinny-dipped at the lake over the years, then as a mass of giggles, we’d dive off the couch and race back to the lake to do it again.
Best friends since my brother rocked up to the Turner house way back when Jess and I were just babies, the guys’ friendship helped shape ours, so by the time Kari and her brother turned up in the foster system and were taken in by the Turners, we were inseparable.
But now, as time goes on and their relationships evolve, the girls are slowly moving their things.
Kari took her dreamcatcher to Luc’s place, because she sleeps in his bed more than she sleeps in her own. Jess hardly even stops here anymore, because Kane has a big house across town and she wants to be with him all the time.
Understandable, of course. She’s in love, the real kind of love, and she spent far too long without him. But during that time of mourning, that time of misery and heartbreak, my sister and I bonded over something new. Something other than sisterhood, friendship, and the ability to swap clothes at absolutely any time we wanted.
In the cold months of the early half of this year, we bonded in silence and darkness. We sat together in her room or mine, and though we didn’t talk, we cried. And we slept. And more often than not, we did it in each other’s arms.
We made plans to not make plans.
We promised a lifetime of company, because we were both broken.
Two broken twins can sort of make up one single woman, right? And though it would be a miserable existence, there was never any judgment. Neither of us told the other to get over it. We never tried to push each other into the sunlight like our brothers so often do. We never made each other feel guilty for sleeping sixteen hours in one single day.
Because sleep is where she visited with Kane.
And sleep is where I tried to escape the constant thoughts on rotation in my brain.
I’m useless.
I’m broken.
I’m dead weight.
It was a double-edged sword, a dangerous game of Russian Roulette, because often, sleep led me to dark nightmares. Terrifying memories.
Memories; not made up of what ifs, but factual moments in my life. Moments I can’t forget, no matter how much I try. No matter how many tears I shed, or days spent in silence, even though that club has now burned to the ground, the men I knew there won’t leave me be. Their fingertips still dig into my hips. Their thumbs still press against my throat. Their eyes, feral and hungry, continue to stare into mine.
They stare all day.
But they stare so much more in my nightmares.
No matter how many times I slink off to the doctors when my family aren’t watching, nothing can convince me I’m clean. No matter how many times a day I change my underwear, or brush my teeth, or wash my hands, I shake with the knowledge that germs crawl on my skin.
I’ve been made disgusting, and I can’t live with the filth anymore.
I pass through the living room and stop in my kitchen. I’m not thirsty. I haven’t been hungry in months. I haven’t felt anything except uncleanliness since Angelo Alesi dragged me out of a burning club and tossed me into a waiting ambulance.
They whisked me off to the hospital, ran tests, and asked me a thousand times if I was okay, but no one knew my secrets. Not really. The doctors made sure I wasn’t suffering from smoke inhalation or burns from the fire, then I was released. And that was that.
Everyone was so consumed with the death of Jess’ boyfriend and all of her grief, I was simply shuffled aside.
I’ve snuck off to my local doctor a hundred times since last November. I pleaded for a way to feel clean again. Bleach baths didn’t work. Disinfectant in place of face wash didn’t work. Nothing would work.
So I begged my doctor.
And still, my skin itches.
My nails have been chewed to the quick. I tossed away just about every piece of clothing I’ve worn since being in a relationship with Graham. But we were together for two years, which means I had to throw everything except my prom dress away.
I’ve lived almost exclusively in my brother’s sweatpants for months. And the few times I’ve had to leave the apartment, I wore Jess’ clothes.
Because she’s not sullied.
She’s not dirty.
And she’s not broken.
I turn away from the clock hanging on the wall. The loud tick… tock… tick… tock… reminds me I’m wasting time.
Well…
Wasting time isn’t accurate; I have all the time in the world. I have nowhere I need to be. Nowhere I want to go. I’m just me, by myself, all alone, with an indefinite leave of absence granted by the school I teach at.
Procrastinating is what I’m doing.
I’m procrastinating, because I’m scared. I’m so unbelievably scared that my hands shake. But I don’t know what else to do, I don’t know how else to stop the itch, the dirtiness, the curdling in my stomach three minutes after I step out of the shower.
Before I lose my nerve, I stop at the kitchen counter and snatch up what I need, then I continue into the hallway.
Three bedrooms; mine, Kari’s, and Jess’. One single bathroom. One toilet.
I pass my room and find it as sanitized and boring as the rest of the apartment. No matter how many times I’ve cleaned it, it’s still dirty.
So fucking dirty.
I pass Jess’ room, and though it’s not quite as sterile as mine, it’s not truly messy, either.
I step into the spotless black and white bathroom at the end of the hall, and stare into a mirror that is void of a single toothpaste splatter. I can’t get my body clean, so I make sure my home is. I try. I try so fucking hard, and yet, I look down at the sink and contemplate washing my hands.
It’s silly, considering my plans.
Considering the problem will be gone in just a minute.
But my hands shake anyway.
The cellphone in my left hand vibrates. The call must’ve cut out, because Graham’s name flashes again. He demands I answer. He fucking demands it.
With a choked cry, I turn and toss the stupid thing into the toilet.
I have hundreds of unread texts from my family, and hundreds more missed calls. Nine out of ten of them are from Graham, and each time he calls, he adds another brick to the wall officially locking me into a room inside my brain.
I’m a little girl again, scre
aming to be let out, sobbing to be freed from his torment.
I flush the toilet, and when the black cell stays in the bottom of the bowl, I flush again. I flush a third time, then a fourth. The cistern has no time to refill, so the flushes become nothing more than a trickle, but my tears flow like a river.
Angrily, I reach out for the toilet brush and bat at the now silent cell. I push it into the bowl and shove it back until it’s out of sight. I flush again, then again, then again.
I cry out with frustration when it slides back into view, and screaming, I pick up the toilet lid and slam it down over the seat until both shatter.
Shards of porcelain snap off and bite at my legs and arms, and yet, the cell remains in view, taunting me.
I drag in a deep breath and swipe at my eyes to clear the blinding tears, then I turn to the shower and flip the taps on. I push Luc’s sweatpants down one handed and tug my tank top off and throw it to the floor. Tears flow over my cheeks as I step into the boiling spray in my sports bra and panties.
My long blonde hair, hair that tickles my elbows when worn down, now flops limply in a messy bun that hasn’t been touched in a week.
A true messy bun. Not the stylish kind that all the pretty girls wear, but the kind that’s oily and gross and probably won’t come down without cutting the elastic out. As the boiling water soaks my hair and stings my chest, my tears come heavier, washing away my sins; one layer of skin at a time. I feel cold. So unbelievably fucking cold, and yet, the water burns me.
My hands shake, and the silver blade in my right hand clatters against my flat stomach.
I don’t want this anymore.
I can’t make the nightmares go away.
I can’t look into the eyes of those that used to love me; they feel sorry for me, they wonder how I could be so stupid. They wonder where the brave Laine has gone, and how I let myself become this person.
I can’t stand under the weight of their sadness. I can’t handle their disappointment or the crushing guilt that Jess and I share a connection so deep, she feels the poison I feel.
She’s better than that.
The choices I made were mine alone, and she doesn’t deserve to taste the black sludge that swirls in our blood.
Without me here, she’ll be set free. I’m an anvil, and she’s a balloon. She needs to fly, and her boyfriend will help her.
I once read a story of a husband and wife drowning in the sea. The coast guard had arrived to help, and though they tried to save the woman, the husband was stuck in survival mode. He kept clawing at his wife so he could stay afloat.
He was just trying to survive. It’s the most basic instinct we all have. He was just trying to live, but in doing so, he was dragging down the one person he swore his life and protection to.
He was drowning her…
And I’m drowning Jess. I’m drowning my entire family.
Pressing my back against the steam warmed tiles, I slide down onto my butt and clutch at the paring knife in my hand.
My teeth chatter, but my chest moves sluggishly. My breath comes both fast and slow, resulting in dizziness that makes me sick to my stomach.
Just do it, Laine.
Just do it.
I lift the short blade and stare at myself in its glinting reflection. Blonde hair that’s still blonde, even soaking wet. Big blue eyes that are mostly red now. Swollen and sad.
I don’t remember the last time my eyes didn’t look like this.
The heavy splashes of the shower echo in the ten by ten bathroom, reminding me that no one else is here. I suck in a deep breath as my loneliness almost cripples me.
I came into this world with my twin sister right there beside me. She was eleven minutes ahead, paving the way and watching for danger. But now I’m alone. I’ll die alone. I’ll die in boiling water with chattering teeth from the cold.
Before I can chicken out, I hold my breath and blink through my tears. Water sits on my lips… or perhaps they’re tears, too. I lift my left hand and study my wrist. Thick blue veins run beneath my flesh. Healthy, pumping veins full of life… a life that’ll never be lived.
I look to the knife. Silver from butt to tip. Five inch blade. Sharp.
I cut my finger on this blade two weeks ago by accident. I bled, and on instinct, shoved my finger in my mouth to stop the flow.
And every minute of every day since then, I’ve considered what would happen if I cut other places.
If I let my life flow down the drain.
It wouldn’t hurt, not really, not beyond the initial sting, and after that, it’d just be like going to sleep.
Darker.
Darker.
Softer.
I’d be floating, and the shower spray would clean my mess so my family doesn’t have to do it.
Boiling hot water to wash away my poison.
Boiling hot water to wash away my sins and leave my family with a clean slate.
They’ll mourn me, some will hate me, but eventually they’ll move on.
If I stay, I’ll be a festering sore in their lives, and an infection will never heal if left to rot. That’s what I am, and that’s why I need to do this; so they can go on and live a life without infection.
They’ll remember me as young… silly… funny. They’ll think of me as eternally beautiful and happy. The last two years will be just a blip on the almost thirty I spent with them. Soon they’ll forget the infection, the broken and dirty woman, and only remember the fun times.
I’m doing the right thing.
I know I’m doing the right thing.
I bring the glinting blade to my wrist and draw in a ragged breath. I hold it in tight and squeeze my eyes shut.
Do it, Laine.
You must die so those you love can live.
And with that thought giving me a shot of bravery, I dig the blade in at the center of my wrist, slide it along my forearm, and stop barely two inches away from the inside of my elbow.
Breath bursts from between my lips when the fiery sting shoots along my arm. Adrenaline surges and my heart hammers. Like the husband in that story, our instinct is to live, so my heart hammers as adrenaline floods my body, my brain screaming at me to undo what I’ve done.
It’s ironic, since the faster my heart beats, the faster I’ll go to sleep.
I open my eyes and study the cherry red blood sliding along my wrist. The rich color is stark against my white skin as it drips onto my thigh and snakes its way toward the crease where my legs bend at my hip. Shower spray lands on my legs and turns the neat lines of red into a shrapnel splatter, but that’s okay, because more pulses from my wrist and replaces it.
Black dots float over my vision, but I like it, because for the first time in forever, I smile. I smile because the pain is almost done.
Soon, I’ll be able to sleep without nightmares.
Soon, I’ll be at peace and Graham won’t be able to call me.
Soon… I won’t be tired anymore.
2
Angelo
Like Furniture
“Laine?” I knock on her front door for the third time in as many minutes and frown at the non-answer.
She’s here. Or at least, her car’s here.
I lean back and glance toward the driveway to check I’m not seeing things, but sure enough, my prized Charger sits behind her little Mazda. Big, beefy American muscle, behind her little Japanese zip car.
She’s here. Or maybe she’s gone for a walk.
That’d actually be a good sign. A little sunlight, something different than sitting alone inside all the time.
I really should leave, because it would be weird if she came back to find me sitting on her front steps. I’ve known her forever. I shouldn’t be insecure, but I am, and she’s the only person on this planet that makes me feel that way. I worry about what she thinks, I worry that she’ll think I’m an idiot.
I worry I’m invisible to her.
Her big brother’s best friend.
It’s like�
�� everybody loves a couch. Couches are comfortable, they’ll always be there to rest on when you’re weary. But no one ever thinks about the couch when it’s not being used.
My biggest fear is that Laine Lenaghan will never see me except as her brother’s friend. I’m just a piece of furniture to her, and she’s in such a dark place now, I can’t tell her any different.
I might never be able to tell her.
I should go home, play some music, sit on the couch and rest. I’ve had a long day at the garage, my hands hurt from tools, and my brain hurts from a parts order one of my guys fucked up. It’s my garage, my problem, and a solid reason why I need to hire someone else to take care of the head splitting office bullshit.
I should go.
But my stomach won’t let me move off this stoop; my stomach says fuck insecurity, she’s right here in her apartment, and I need to go in.
I pull the keys from my pocket and eye the silver metal that’ll let me into her home. I’ve had keys to this place since the girls moved in, just like I have keys to Luc’s place, and Scotch’s. I even have keys to the chief’s house. It’s convenient and easy when one of us calls and asks someone to swing by a house to grab something we forgot.
Leaning forward, I press my ear to the heavy front door and close my eyes like a true creep. If a cruiser moves down the street right now, brotherhood or not, they’d probably arrest me for being a weirdo.
But I feel her here.
Sort of.
I feel lots of things.
My life has been a rollercoaster of ups and downs; I have the best friends that I now call family. They’re the ups. Then I have a daddy that liked to use my mom as a punching bag whenever he got bored. Those were the downs.
I spent my youth hugging my crying mom after my dad was done and had gone back to that fucking couch.
I know ups, I know downs, and I know gut feelings.
I could be sitting in class and my gut would turn. I knew what it meant, I knew every time. Even my best friend knew, just by the way my spine would straighten. Once the bell rang for the day, I’d haul ass across town to our shitty house and find my mom with a brand-new split lip, and when he was feeling extra angry, she had broken bones, too.
