My scarlet blood mixes with the water. The pain is blinding, and the razorblade drops from my shaky hand. I'm bleeding profusely but the pain doesn't help this time, it only makes matters worse. I regret doing it, and yet I don't. My sick brain has convinced itself this is what I need, what I deserve. I'm forever punishing myself for the thoughts in my head that only I know about.
I know what my mother would say. She'd sign a check to my psychiatrist, and he'd pump me full of pills again. The pills never helped. They just made me drowsy and numb. I still hurt myself on them, just so I could feel fucking something.
I get out of the shower and bandage up my arm. I get dressed. The cut leaves dark droplets of red blood on my clothes. The blood sinks into the black fabric, disappearing. If only my problems could do the same.
I want to go see Sam, so I load up some food into a paper bag in the kitchen, throw on a black leather jacket, and lock up the house when I leave. Sam is an early riser just like me, and when I approach the alleyway, I see him sitting up against the wall. A tentative smile lights up his face when he sees me.
"Got something good for me?" he asks with a grin. He looks worn-out and tired as hell, and for the umpteenth time, I find myself wishing he'd take me up on the offer to treat him to a motel room, at least. But I know he won't – he's too proud to accept help like that.
"Always." I hand him the bag, my eyes discreetly scanning the surroundings for signs of needles. But there's nothing. It seems Sam is clean tonight.
I sit next to him on the ground, not caring if I get my clothes dirty. I'm here for Sam, not to worry about my appearance.
He's digging into the food without saying much, and my heart beats with uncertainty, eager for the reprieve of some calming words from my friend.
"Is everything okay?" I find myself asking. Sam nods, but doesn't look at me. "You seem so far away..."
"I'm right here, Dove." He puts the paper bag down and reaches for my hand. My eyes fill with tears for some inexplicable reason, and I wipe them away with my free hand. "What's wrong, kid?"
"I'm just..." I shake my head, laughing to make light of the situation. "I feel alone."
"You're not alone, you have me."
"But..."
"No buts." Sam smiles wide. "I'm always here for you, Dove. You know why?"
"Why?" I whisper.
"Because I care about you," he goes on. "I care about you like you were my own daughter. I love you like I love my child. And I want you to know, even if you lose me, or anyone in your life, that love remains. In your heart, in your memories, in your mind. Do you understand?"
It's the most he's opened up to me, and the tears are burning my eyes again. "Thank you, Sam. I do."
"Good." He picks up the bag and starts eating again, looking at me with a warm smile. "Remember what I told you."
"It feels like you're saying goodbye," I mutter. "Are you going somewhere?"
"No way," Sam grins with his mouth full. "You're stuck with me, kid."
"Good." I laugh again as I pick myself up. "I'll see you soon, then."
"Very soon," he smiles in return.
I lean over to grab the wrapping off the food and when I do, my sleeve rides up, exposing my bandaged arm. I see Sam's eyes dart to it, and I quickly pull my sleeve back down.
"Dove." I ignore him, balling up the paper, distracting myself with the crinkling sounds. "Dove, look at me."
Except I can't. Because if I do, I’ll cry and want to tell him the truth. That I'm a wreck. That I can't help hurting myself. That I still believe I deserve this.
"Dove, you didn't."
"I'm sorry," I breathe, but the tears don't fall.
"You can't keep doing this, kid. You can't keep hurting yourself."
"I know."
"Then why do it?"
"Because I deserve it."
"Now, that's some real bullshit." Sam grabs me by my unharmed arm and forces me closer. "Dove, I'm worried about you."
"Don't be."
"Do you have someone you can talk to?"
"I have Robin."
"But you won't tell him, will you?" Wordlessly, I shake my head. Sam knows me better than I know myself. There's no way I'm going to my brother with these problems. I don't want to worry him. "Dove, you need to talk to someone about this. You need to stop it with the guilt."
I nod, but we both know I'm pretending. Sam doesn't know about Parker. He never asked how I got the scar on my face, and I never told him. If I do, it will only make things more real.