Pieces of Summer

Apparently Mika thinks I’m still the same sweet boy that I once was with her.

Maybe it’s fucking time I show her I’ve changed too.

Chapter 30

MIKA

My heartbeat drums in my ears as the rain drops go from barely there to assaulting my car without mercy. I whirl into my driveway and park in the garage, pressing the button to shut the door as I walk through the garage entrance to my house.

Once upon a time, Chase James ripped my heart out. I was a kid then, and it felt like the world ended. I did a lot of stupid things after that night. I slept with anyone who paid me any attention. I drank and partied like my life wasn’t precious. And I lived from day to day with zero concern for the future.

Now here I am repeating history like the fool I can’t afford to be anymore. Only it’s a different sort of carelessness, and the stakes are unimaginably higher.

Whit is beautiful. She’s nice. She’s witty. I snort as I run that line in my head: Whit is witty.

It’s a sad laugh though. Whit is everything I can never be again. She’s perfect for Chase.

I stare in the mirror at the girl staring back at me. With shaky hands, I slowly pull my shirt up above my stomach, lifting it to be just below my breasts, and I stare at all the scars that mark my skin.

“Mika! Mika, no! What have you done?”

Aidan is yelling, but I’m in a cloud of euphoria, feeling the high of the pain as the blood trickles down from my waist. So much better. It all feels so much better. There’s no more pressure. I made it go away.

“I need an ambulance, at…”

Aidan’s voice trails off as I glance down at my stomach to where the small, shallow cuts are bleeding. I don’t need an ambulance. I need something to bottle this feeling so I can stay in this state forever, no longer worrying about the numbers, the urges, the constant unfinished things that never fucking go away.

She said she’d be here at ten. It’s after twelve. What did she expect to happen? Lydia is never punctual, the bitch. And we were supposed to finish that puzzle. I can’t make the pieces fit by myself. They need to fit. They need to. Can’t people understand you can’t simply leave something undone?

“I can’t make it fit by myself,” I say aloud, sighing dreamily as the high continues to course through me.

“Damn it, Mika! It’s just a fucking puzzle. That’s it! I’m calling Dr. Kravitz. You can’t fucking stay here anymore because I can’t watch you twenty-four hours a day, and I can’t keep people here like they’re supposed to be fucking doing no matter how much I pay them. It’s only getting worse. You can’t drive, you can’t eat without help, you can’t even give yourself a shower, Mika. This is…”

His words trail off, and I reach for the razor blade that’s resting on the tile, stained red by my own blood. One more cut. Just one more and I’ll be good.

That memory is from a year or so after the surgery that saved my life and changed it. The surgery that went wrong. The surgery that shouldn’t have been in the hands of a man who miraculously didn’t kill me.

At least the malpractice suit afforded my care so Aidan wasn’t forced to deal with the financial burden of my recovery.

Dr. Kravitz was convinced it wasn’t the surgery that messed me up. He still blames it on a psychological break that forced my mind to function differently. Others blame it on the surgery, especially since I struggled to relearn how to feed myself, drive a car and so much more.

It made me their science experiment to study, to debate, to question endlessly, and to push to my limits.

The curious case of Mika. That’s how they always referred to me.

All I know is that I found a way to cope without harming myself over and over. That’s in large part due to Dr. Kravitz pushing me past my limits daily.

Tears prick my eyes as I lower my shirt, and I swallow hard.

This is me. I’m not Whit. She’s normal and loving and Chase would be lucky to have her. I should have said something nice to them instead of making him feel guilty. It was obvious Whit was drunk, but it was also obvious he’d been with her.

What did I honestly expect? If Whit was a bitch, it’d be easy to want him away from her. She wouldn’t deserve him in my mind. But she actually deserves better than both of us and our ancient issues we left unresolved.

Moving toward the kitchen, I stare at the stove, wishing I was able to cook. It’s one of the things I lost the ability to do. Cooking involves numbers, times, and a lot of directions. I struggle to follow any directions.

It all used to be so easy. I cooked when I was looking for a stress release, and now I’ve had to find other ways to cope.

Writing.