hate and rage going on inside, but you might find it helpful to talk

about it.”

I flick the rubber band again and the snap is covered up by

the deafening clap of thunder. The room lights up and the rubber

band breaks, the pieces falling to the floor. I stare at them as I rub my swollen wrist. I still have a bandage on one of them, the one

that I made the deepest cuts on. The other one is starting to heal

and soon there will only be scars. More scars. One day I wonder if

I’ll be one big scar that will own every ounce of my skin.

Doug reaches into the pocket of his brown tweed jacket and

retrieves another rubber band, a thicker one that’s dark red. I take

it, slip it onto my wrist, and begin flicking it again. Doug scribbles some notes down, closes the notebook, and then overlaps his

hands and places them on top of the notebook. “You know, the

longer you stay in denial, the longer they’re going to keep you

here.” He gestures around at the room. “Is that what you want?”

I stop flicking the rubber band, fold my arms, and lean back

in the seat with my legs kicked out in front of me. “Maybe.” I know

I’m being a pain in the ass and I don’t know why. I feel bitter on

the inside, unworthy to be here. I feel everything and maybe that’s

the problem. I clench my hands into fists and jab my fingernails

into my palms, which are tucked to my side so the therapist

doesn’t see them.

“I just don’t want to be here,” I mutter. “But it’s fucking hard,

you know?”

He leans forward with interest. “What’s hard?”

I have no idea where I’m going with this. “Life.” I shrug.

His gray eyebrows dip underneath the frame of his glasses.

“What’s hard about your life, Kayden?”

This guy doesn’t get it, which might make it easier. “Feeling

everything.”

He looks perplexed as he reclines in his chair and slips off his

glasses. “Feeling emotions? Or the pain in life?”

Fuck. Maybe he does get it. “Both I guess.”

Rain slashes against the window. It’s weird that it’s raining

instead of snowing and by morning the ground is going to be a

sloshy mess.

He cleans the lenses of his glasses with the bottom of his

shirt and then slips them back on his nose. “Do you ever let

yourself feel what’s inside you?”

I consider what he said for a very long time. Sirens shriek

outside and somewhere in the halls a person is crying. “I’m not

sure… maybe… not always.”

“And why is that?” he asks.

I think back to all the kicks, the punches, the screaming, and

how eventually I just drowned it all out, shut down, and died

inside. “Because it’s too much.” It’s a simple answer, but each word

conveys more meaning than anything I’ve ever said. It’s fucking

strange to talk about it aloud. The only person I’ve ever said

anything to was Callie and I sugarcoated it for her, to keep her

from seeing how ugly and fucked up I am on the inside.

He removes a pen from the pocket of his jacket and his hand

swiftly moves across the paper as he scribbles down some notes.

“And what do you do when it becomes too much?”

I slide my finger under the rubber band and give it a flick,

then do it again harder. It breaks again and I shake my head as I

catch the pieces in my hand. “I think you know what I do, which is

why I keep breaking these damn rubber bands.”

He chews on the end of his pen as he evaluates me. “Let’s

talk about the night you got in a fight.”

“I already told you about that night a thousand times.”

“No, you told me what happened that night in your own

words, but you’ve never explained to me how you felt when you

were making your decision. And emotions always play a large part

in the things we do.”

“I’m not a fan of them,” I admit, slouching back in the chair.

“I know that,” he responds confidently. “And I’d like to get to

the bottom of why.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I tell him, dragging my nail up the inside

of my palm to soothe the accelerating beat of my heart. “No one

wants to hear about that. Trust me.”

He drops the pen on top of the notebook that’s on his lap.

“Why would you think that?”

“Because it’s true.” I stab my nails deeper into my skin until I

feel the warmth and comfort of blood. “I’m nineteen years old and

everything that’s done is done. There’s no point in trying to save

me. Who I am and what I do is always going to be.”

“I’m not trying to save you,” he promises. “I’m trying to heal

you.”

I run my finger along a thin scar on the palm of my hand that

was put there when my dad cut me with a shard of glass. “What?

Heal these? I’m pretty fucking sure they’re not going anywhere.”

He positions his hand over his heart. “I want to heal what’s in

here.”

Usually I bail on these situations. Otherwise I’ll end up feeling

things I don’t want to, and then I have to take it out on my body

just to cope. But I can’t here. They won’t let me anywhere near

anything sharp, especially razors. My jawline and chin are

extremely scruffy because I haven’t shaved in a week.

“This is getting way too heart-to-heart for me,” I say and

grab onto the sides of the chair to push myself up.

He holds up his hand, signaling for me to sit back down.

“Okay, we don’t have to talk about your feelings, but I want you to

answer one thing for me.”

I stare blankly at him as I lower myself back into the chair.

“That depends on what that one thing is.”

He taps the pen against the notebooks as he deliberates.

“Why did you go to the party that night?”

“It’s always the same question with you.”

“Because it’s an important question.”

I shake my head as my pulse speeds up with either anger or

fear—I can’t tell. “I went there to beat Caleb Miller up. You know

that.”

“Yes, but why?”

“Why what?” I’m getting annoyed, frustrated, and pissed off,

and the anger snakes through my veins underneath my skin.

“Why did you beat him up?” It’s like he’s stuck on repeat and

I want him to shut the hell up.

My heart knocks inside my chest like a damn jackhammer

and all I want is something sharp or rough—anything that can

calm my pulse down. I’m glancing around in a panic, searching for

something, but the room is bare. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.