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Authors: Alaska Angelini
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and there was no stopping the continuous sobs that kept leaving me at random moments. This was too much. Too hard to relive.
“I didn’t see him much toward the end. Not because I didn’t want to, but because he didn’t live here. He remarried during my teens and her family was from Oklahoma. They relocated there. I saw him once, a year before he passed. I was so drugged up though that I barely remember it.” Another sob. “God, help me, what he must have thought of me. Of what I’d become.”
“You don’t know what he thought.” Jaime’s fingers slid against the side of my cheek as he drew me to look at him. “You were his daughter. He loved you.”
“But he had to have known,” I whispered. “He wanted great things for me and the last thing he would have seen was me … that way.”
“Like I said, we don’t know. And even if he did suspect, it wouldn’t have changed his love for you. That is what you need to hold to—truths, not assumptions. Speculation gets us nowhere, and half the time we’re wrong. The torture we bring to ourselves over what-if’s is more damaging than reality will ever be.” Jaime’s hand traveled upward and he wiped the tears from the side of my face. “These are little things we can move past. Now tell me more. You mentioned your teenage years were bad. Why? Is that when these feelings of suicide came? Can you remember the first time it crossed your mind?”
I blinked through the memories. “I was twelve.” I stopped, glancing up at him. “It was the night I started cutting.”
“Twelve?”
“Yes.” My eyes lowered and I was gone from the room. “It was raining out. I remember my parents decided we were just going to eat at home because they didn’t want to go out in the storm. We were sitting at the table and I can remember being anxious. I wasn’t sure why, but it was so bad that I can remember having a hard time eating. My hands were trembling and I felt sick. My mother noticed and thought maybe I was getting ill. I … pretended I was. I didn’t want her to worry. I was so scared.”
The hall of my childhood home was suddenly before me and I could see my old door grow closer as I rushed forward.
“I excused myself from the table and went to my room. The need to curl into a ball and cry was overwhelming. I had so much sadness and anger. And it was over nothing. Everything had been fine that I can remember. I just crumbled under it all.”
My reflection in my dresser mirror was blurred, just like all of those years ago. I was already crying, already hating the person who looked back. She was ugly, fat, just like the kids at school constantly said.
I blinked her away, glancing at Jaime. He was studying me.
“What did you see?”
I sniffled, rolling my eyes. “Stupid kid stuff. I was bullied in school. Nothing too extreme. Name calling, that sort of thing. I remembered it when I was looking in the mirror. I can remember the taunting voices in my head feeding the flames of my breakdown. I hated looking at myself. It’s what caused me to grab the CD case and break it. I used the jagged plastic to, well, you know.”
“To cut yourself?”
“Yes. But more like scratch. It didn’t break the skin very much, but the pain helped. I needed the pain. Need,” I breathed out. “It’s so stupid.”
“It’s not stupid, slave. A lot of people need physical pain to cope. There’s nothing wrong with that if done the right way. It’s okay to experience pain. To like it. What those kids did was wrong. It hurt you, here,” he said, placing his hand over my heart. “Age makes no difference. Words hurt and people are cruel. The fact that they were adolescents doesn’t make it okay. It’s not.”
His hand slid up my chest the smallest amount before lifting to wipe away the new tears that were streaming free. I couldn’t stop myself from wanting to lean in. It made no sense. The man had lied to me, taken me against my will and brought me to this place, and
“I didn’t see him much toward the end. Not because I didn’t want to, but because he didn’t live here. He remarried during my teens and her family was from Oklahoma. They relocated there. I saw him once, a year before he passed. I was so drugged up though that I barely remember it.” Another sob. “God, help me, what he must have thought of me. Of what I’d become.”
“You don’t know what he thought.” Jaime’s fingers slid against the side of my cheek as he drew me to look at him. “You were his daughter. He loved you.”
“But he had to have known,” I whispered. “He wanted great things for me and the last thing he would have seen was me … that way.”
“Like I said, we don’t know. And even if he did suspect, it wouldn’t have changed his love for you. That is what you need to hold to—truths, not assumptions. Speculation gets us nowhere, and half the time we’re wrong. The torture we bring to ourselves over what-if’s is more damaging than reality will ever be.” Jaime’s hand traveled upward and he wiped the tears from the side of my face. “These are little things we can move past. Now tell me more. You mentioned your teenage years were bad. Why? Is that when these feelings of suicide came? Can you remember the first time it crossed your mind?”
I blinked through the memories. “I was twelve.” I stopped, glancing up at him. “It was the night I started cutting.”
“Twelve?”
“Yes.” My eyes lowered and I was gone from the room. “It was raining out. I remember my parents decided we were just going to eat at home because they didn’t want to go out in the storm. We were sitting at the table and I can remember being anxious. I wasn’t sure why, but it was so bad that I can remember having a hard time eating. My hands were trembling and I felt sick. My mother noticed and thought maybe I was getting ill. I … pretended I was. I didn’t want her to worry. I was so scared.”
The hall of my childhood home was suddenly before me and I could see my old door grow closer as I rushed forward.
“I excused myself from the table and went to my room. The need to curl into a ball and cry was overwhelming. I had so much sadness and anger. And it was over nothing. Everything had been fine that I can remember. I just crumbled under it all.”
My reflection in my dresser mirror was blurred, just like all of those years ago. I was already crying, already hating the person who looked back. She was ugly, fat, just like the kids at school constantly said.
I blinked her away, glancing at Jaime. He was studying me.
“What did you see?”
I sniffled, rolling my eyes. “Stupid kid stuff. I was bullied in school. Nothing too extreme. Name calling, that sort of thing. I remembered it when I was looking in the mirror. I can remember the taunting voices in my head feeding the flames of my breakdown. I hated looking at myself. It’s what caused me to grab the CD case and break it. I used the jagged plastic to, well, you know.”
“To cut yourself?”
“Yes. But more like scratch. It didn’t break the skin very much, but the pain helped. I needed the pain. Need,” I breathed out. “It’s so stupid.”
“It’s not stupid, slave. A lot of people need physical pain to cope. There’s nothing wrong with that if done the right way. It’s okay to experience pain. To like it. What those kids did was wrong. It hurt you, here,” he said, placing his hand over my heart. “Age makes no difference. Words hurt and people are cruel. The fact that they were adolescents doesn’t make it okay. It’s not.”
His hand slid up my chest the smallest amount before lifting to wipe away the new tears that were streaming free. I couldn’t stop myself from wanting to lean in. It made no sense. The man had lied to me, taken me against my will and brought me to this place, and
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