into submission, forcing me to recognize what I really am.
Nothing…
There are no more tears when I turn my back on my parents.
My body is numb, impossibly light even, as I seem to float toward my father’s office.
With frigid fingers, I push open his private bathroom door.
I hear nothing when I open the drawer and pull out the straight razor he’s used for years.
When I lift it in front of the mirror, my eyes are unseeing as I inspect its reflection.
And though fear and hesitation lurk in the distance, I give the voices free rein, allowing them this victory so they may provide armor against such useless emotions. Because the voices are right.
I am nothing.
Although my throat is clamped shut, I somehow manage to murmur, “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.”
A sense of relief washes over me as I begin to fade from consciousness, and a lazy smile crosses my face when the darkness finally swallows me whole.
Murmurs fill the air, but I don’t dare open my eyes. I don’t need them to know that gauze is wrapped around both of my arms from wrist to elbow. And I definitely don’t want to be on the receiving end of looks of pity from the nurses, or familiar glares of disapproval from my parents, if they’re even here.
So I remain still, listening to the beeping and wondering what the hell I’m going to do now. I’m glad for whatever drugs I’m on because they seem to have muted the voices for a while at least.
A light knock sounds, startling me. Then, a soft, feminine voice. “Mr. and Mrs. Campbell?”
I hear shuffling, most likely my father standing, then the clicking of heels as someone enters the room.
So, they’re here…Surprising.
“Yes, I’m Tristan Campbell, and this is my wife, Diane. May we help you?”
“Actually,” the woman clears her throat, “I’m Claudia, from Sacred Heart. We spoke on the phone.”
“Right. Yes. Do you have any updates?”
“I do.” The door shuts softly, and I wait patiently while they take their seats. “I have a lovely woman who is willing to take Chloe into her home. She runs an offshoot of Sacred Heart only a couple of hours from here, a very small home that typically houses three to four residents, all from different backgrounds. As you have requested expedited processing, I have prepared the paperwork to have Chloe discharged to our care, then I can take her to the home from here.”
Her voice lowers in volume. “Thank you for your donation, by the way.”
“Of course.” His tone remains composed. “Always glad to help those in need.”
Bullshit. Where were you when I needed you?
I wish I had the courage to shout my thoughts. But I don’t. I’m too tired to do anything but lie here.
So, I do. I hide behind my eyelids and listen. I listen as they discuss the home, as my father demands I remain in high school—though his disapproval is clear when it’s explained it will be public schooling and not private—as he boasts about money he’ll give me that I’ll never touch—because I will refuse to take his money—and finally the sounds of a pen scratching paper as they sign my life away.
They say nothing as they leave me alone in the room.
No “I’m sorry.”
No “goodbye.”
No “I love you.”
I would say it hurts, but I don’t think I can hurt anymore. There is nothing left of me that can be hurt.
And as I listen to the machines around me, all I can think is that while their beeping would suggest my heart still beats, each sound they make is a lie.
I’m no more alive than they are.
ONE YEAR LATER…
SPRING
1
A subzero draft rushes my face, signaling the high school’s air conditioning has clicked on, but I don’t hear it. Nor do I hear Mr. Alexander’s monotone history lecture about East and West Germany. While I’m completely aware it’s important information, my mind has wandered. Again.
I’ve grown a lot over the past year. Learned a lot about life and myself in general. And though there have been many lessons, some definitely harder than others, the most important of them is this.
Sometimes rock-bottom has a hidden safety net. You don’t see it, but when you land, when you’ve reached the lowest of lows, somehow you don’t hit the ground. You strike that net, and then you’re thrown so high, you fly. Sure, it’s scary.
But sometimes, it’s necessary.
The thought lingers, and subconsciously I tug my fingerless gloves into the crook of my elbow. The texture of the knit