I stretch my arm out in front of me, see the vein. It’s faint and small so I pump my fist repeatedly until it’s purple and bulging like it’s angry. Like it’s shouting at me to stop. Don’t do it. I can’t stop. Not until I understand.

I bring my knee up and rest my arm on top of it, my forearm up. I pump my fist over and over again as I move the razor closer, feeling nothing, not until the blade comes into contact with my skin. I feel a hint of cold and I shiver, but I shove the sensation aside and press the blade down. It stings as the skin tears open. I feel it, along with the warmth of the blood dripping out, but I still don’t understand what he was thinking…what made him go through with it—what made him end his life.

I push the razor down harder and start to graze it along my skin. Cutting my skin open. Letting the blood out. Letting the pain out. It’s trailing down my skin, like a weak river, and the line across my wrist is opening up, but it’s not nearly open enough, just a faint cut, something that will barely leave a scar. I need to do it more.

I slice the razor back and forth over my skin, each movement bringing on more pain, yet at the same time I’m letting it out. I’m starting to feel light-headed, like I’m swimming into dark water, drowning. How far can I go? When do I stop? How much is enough?

Suddenly someone knocks on the door. “Nova, are you in there?” my mom asks.

“Go away!” I shout, my voice off pitch and trembling.

“What the hell are you doing in there? Are you okay?” she asks, worried.

“I said go the fuck away!”

“I will not. Not until you tell me what’s wrong…I thought I heard you crying in there.”

When I don’t respond, the doorknob starts to turn and then the door opens. Her expression falls and her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of me, razor in my hand, blood all over my arm and the floor. She’s going to freak out and all I can think is: Am I glad she walked in? Am I glad I left the door unlocked? Am I glad she stopped me?

I blink from the memory, breathing in and out, telling my pulse to settle down, to remember, but to not let the memory overtake me. Sometimes, when I really think about it, I tell myself that I didn’t lock the door that day because I wanted someone to walk in on me, wanted them to find me before I bled out—that I never intended to kill myself. I’m not sure if there’s any truth behind it or not. My head was in too weird a place at the time and thinking back it’s hard to decipher what I was truly feeling. But my mom did walk in on me—she did open the door—and I didn’t die. I was madder than hell at her, too, yelled and screamed, not even sure why I was so mad. But I got over it and in the end, right in this moment, I’m so glad that she did.

Getting to my feet, I walk forward and knock on the door to Quinton’s apartment again. I do it ten times just to be sure that no one is going to answer, and then, even though I’m afraid to do it, I grab the doorknob. I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to do but I’m not even sure there is a right thing to do, so I do what I know.

Summoning a deep breath, I turn the doorknob, but it’s locked. As I let go and my arm falls to the side, a piece of my hope burns out. I back away from the door and sit back down. All I can do now is wait for Quinton to come to me.


Quinton

The pain’s starting to dwindle, or maybe it’s still there in my body but my mind is focusing on other stuff. Like the sound of the wind just outside, or how cold the wall is against my back, though my skin feels hot, or how my hand itches to draw yet I can’t move my fingers enough to pick up a pencil.

“You are so jacked up right now,” Tristan remarks as he lowers his head to the mirror and sucks up another line. He throws his head back and sniffs, putting his hand to his nose as he releases a euphoric breath. He’s done at least three more lines than me, pushing that boundary he’s always pushing.

“So are you.” I lean forward from the wall and steal the mirror from his hand. I don’t hesitate, putting the pen to my nose and sucking the white powder up in one deep, wonderful breath. Then I set the mirror down on the floor and rub my hand across my nostrils, sniffing as my nose and throat absorb the adrenaline rush.

“True,” Tristan says, drumming his fingers on the tops of his knees as he glances around my room, like he’s searching for something, but he’s not going to find it, since there’s nothing in here. “I think we should do something.”

“Like what?” I massage my bruised hand, my fingers are crooked and I still can’t straighten them, but there’s no pain for the most part. One of my eyes is also swollen and I can barely see out of it, but everything’s good because I’m soaring right now. “Because I can’t do anything that involves using my hand or my foot or my ribs either.”

He snorts a laugh as he starts tapping his foot, so much energy buzzing through him I think he’s going to lose it. “Isn’t that what we were trying to do here? Numb out your pain so you can move?”

I consider what he said and remember that was the point behind doing so much today. “Let me see if I can,” I tell him, then I bend my knees, put my good hand down on the floor and push up. It feels like it hurts yet at the same time I feel at peace with the ache inside me as I stumble to my feet. My left leg tries to buckle, so I put all my weight on the right one and brace my hand on the wall.

“I think you got it,” Tristan says, standing up from my mattress. “Now we can walk over to Johnny’s and get some more, pretending we’re making a pickup for Dylan or something.”

“We don’t have any cash for that,” I point out, then glance at the pennies on my floor. “Unless you think he’ll accept pennies.”

He shakes his head and then smiles as he takes a roll of cash out of his pocket. “Yeah, we do.”

“Where did you get that?” I ask, leaning my weight on my arm as I try to support my body.

He shakes his head and stuffs the money back into his pocket. “I’m not going to tell you, since you’ll be all weird about it.”

I frown at the money that I’m pretty sure belongs to Dylan, the money that Delilah gave to me to make the pickup that led to my ass getting beat by Trace’s guys. “Did you steal that off of me yesterday, because that wasn’t mine. It was Dylan’s.”

“Can we just go?” he asks, and I know he did—he took the money and has no plans to give it back—yet I don’t say anything because in the end that money is what is going to get us more drugs. “Forget about where the money came from. I’ll make sure to pay Dylan back, but let’s just get to Johnny’s because we’re running low.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea? After what happened yesterday? Because I really don’t feel like getting my ass kicked again and this time I don’t think I’m going to be able to run away.” I rest my head back against the wall and roll my eyes a few times, trying to stop them from drying out. “You know, the guy that beat the shit out of me made a threat that you were going to get it, too.”

“So what? I can handle whatever they bring,” he says with a stupid amount of confidence that’s going to end up getting him hurt. I can feel it. “Besides, if they come here then I’ll run, unlike you…” He considers something, looking perplexed. “Why didn’t you at first? It makes me think you’re crazy.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Maybe we both are.”

“Or maybe we both need help,” I say, but I only really mean him.

“I don’t need to hear that shit from you, too,” he states with an exaggerated sigh.

“What do you mean me, too?” I ask, lifting my head back up to look at him. “Who else has been telling you that?”

“My parents,” he replies with a shrug.

“I thought you haven’t talked to them since we bailed out on Maple Grove?”

He does another line, sucking air through his nose multiple times as he puts his head upright. “I made the stupid mistake of calling them a few months ago to see if they could lend me some money. I used Delilah’s phone and apparently my mom cared enough to save it in her contacts—although she didn’t care enough to say yes to lending me the money.” He mutters something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like “Stupid bitch.” “Then she randomly called about a day or two ago…told me I should come home and get help…said they missed me or some shit, like they suddenly decided they were going to start caring.”

“Maybe you should go home,” I say, thinking of my own father, wondering what he’s doing and if he ever thinks about me. I haven’t talked to him since I left Seattle, but then again I haven’t tried to call him and I’m not sure if he knows how to get ahold of me. If he does, though, I think I’d rather not know, because that means he can call me but chooses not to. The truth can hurt a hell of a lot more than just thinking about the fucked-up possibilities. “I mean, if they want you to get help, then why not? It obviously means that they care about you.”

He laughs sharply. “They don’t care about me. Trust me.”

“Then why would they call you?” I ask, wishing he would go, get better, live a good life. “I’m sure they care about you—that they miss you…you’re probably hurting them a lot…” I almost say, “all things considering,” since they’ve already lost one child. But I can’t do that—say it aloud. Remind him and myself of what I’ve done.

He ignores me. “You know what, maybe you should go home,” he retorts as he pinches his nostrils with his fingertips.

“This is my home,” I say. “I don’t have anywhere else…I fucked that up a long time ago.”

It grows quiet between the two of us, which happens a lot when one of us brings up the past, even if we’re both forcing euphoria into our bodies. The past can always momentarily hinder the high, although we have gone into some really deep heart-to-hearts about it when we’re both soaring on adrenaline, but we never remember exactly what we said when we crash back down to reality.