I sit on the top bench and collect some water from the bucket, throwing it on the unit, and steam billows up and shrouds the space.
Not seen.
Leaning back against the wood, I close my eyes. I hear the screams instantly. Screams that can only be associated with death. The screams of my mum. Of my dad. Of my sister.
All burning alive.
I open my eyes to darkness and lean forward, putting my hand over the grill of the steam unit, the hot coals only an inch from my palm. I hold still. Absorb the pain. The heat. Because I won’t die. This fire won’t kill me.
Clenching my hand into a fist, I squeeze away the burn and lie down, reaching up and turning the sand timer. Fifteen minutes. I’ll turn it another four times before I’ll allow myself to leave this inferno.
It will never be enough.
2
Miami – Present Day
BEAU
A person’s ability to escape depends on their ability to imagine. I’ve lost my imagination. Lost everything. I’m trapped—trapped in a world that doesn’t make sense to me anymore. Trapped in a body I can’t even look at. Trapped with thoughts I want to physically rip from my head. Trapped with feelings that blur and blend into nothing. Happiness is a forgotten emotion. It’s safer to feel nothing, to ignore that I’m a fuck-up. To disregard the fact that I’m beyond help.
Accept I am alone.
Give up on hoping—hoping I can ever be normal again.
Because without hope, there can be no disappointment.
“Have you thought of ending your life, Beau?” Dr. Fletcher asks, and I blink, looking up from my lap, woken up from my daze.
All the time. “Never,” I say coolly, aware that the alternative answer will have me sent swiftly to a psychiatric hospital. Not again.
Her eyes fall to my wrists, and mine fall with them. I clear my throat and pull the sleeve of my shirt down, holding the cuff in my palm with my fingertips. “Tell me what you did today,” she goes on, and I smile to myself. “Is something amusing?”
I force myself to look at her. This woman, who is so together, so calm and serene, I could easily punch her in the face and not feel an ounce of guilt. “Nothing is amusing.” Not anymore. Not in my life.
“You smiled.” She crosses one leg over the other, her slender, perfect, untarnished limbs like a horrible torture. A reminder than I am anything but untarnished. Anything but perfect. She shouldn’t be a therapist. Dr. Fletcher is so flawless, it’s enough to send even the sanest person over the edge. “A person smiling suggests they are amused,” she adds.
“I’m amused that I’m here,” I say honestly. “I’m here, and I don’t want to be.” She knows I’m not talking about my sessions. Sessions with various therapists that have cost a small fortune and done nothing to chase away my hatred or my demons in the past two years. I’m talking about this world. This life. And yet each time I’ve convinced myself that there is a way out, that small, infuriating part of my brain surfaces and warns me away from the blade. From the rope. From the pills.
The voice of my mom.
The buzzer sounds, and I breathe in, rising from the chair. “It’s been a pleasure, Dr. Fletcher.” I smile, and she huffs a small, disbelieving puff of laughter. I’m sure it’s unprofessional, but I can’t blame her. She’s endured me for six months now. Six whole pointless months. And I’ll keep on coming. The alternative is a hospital. I’m not game. I bust my balls every day trying to make sure everyone around me thinks I’m okay. My act doesn’t wash with Dr. Fletcher. I’m ill, no question. Poisoned by hatred and bitterness. I’m used to it now. Comfortable with it. Accepting.
“I’ll see you next week, Beau.” Dr. Fletcher unravels her long legs and stands, placing her journal on the glossy wooden table between the couches. “It would be lovely to hear if you’d tried something new.”
“Like?” I ask as I swing my purse onto my shoulder.
“Dinner in a restaurant. Drinks in a bar. Maybe even seeing your aunt perform in one of her shows.”
“I thought you’d learned to manage your expectations.” I give her a wry smile, and she gives me a bright one. It’s dazzling. I can’t remember the last time I smiled so wide my face hurt. It makes me want to punch her more.
It was with Mom. The last time I smiled that brightly, it was with Mom.
“I won’t give up on you, Beau,” she says.
Isn’t that what every therapist should say to their patient? “That’s sweet.” If wasted. “Goodbye.” I leave her office and make my way down the stairs, and the moment I burst out of the door, I take in air urgently, as if I could have been holding my breath for the past forty-five minutes.