Tempting

I could talk to Emma, but she’s angry on my behalf. She starts ranting about how awful my parents are, about what a traitor Brendon is for siding with them, about how everything in the world is unjust.

She’s right.

But I don’t want her being pissed for me.

I’m plenty pissed myself. It’s just… I can never quite find the words to express it. Not verbally. Not to anyone else.

The only place where I can really get my feelings out is my journal.

I’ve always loved pouring my feelings onto the pages. Though love isn’t the right word. It’s more of a frantic need. If I skip a few days, my thoughts turn into a jumbled mess. I get fuzzy. Overwhelmed.

My head goes to dark places.

Last year, my head started going to dark places all the time. It was before Grandma got sick. It wasn’t for any reason, really.

It was like falling asleep. It happened slowly, then all at once. Food stopped tasting good. Everything I read—even The Hunger Games—failed to grab my attention. Class was boring. Parties, hangouts, and study sessions stopped appealing.

I didn’t hang out with anyone but Emma.

And I didn’t even want to see Emma. It was some combination of her insistence and inertia that got me watching Disney movies at her place every afternoon.

Otherwise, I didn’t do anything but go to school and work. But even that felt so hard. Like there was always a ten-pound weight on my chest.

I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. I didn’t even want Brendon.

I was empty.

I started seeing a therapist. According to her, I have high functioning depression. Instead of falling apart and doing nothing, I channel my self-loathing into achieving.

Apparently, it’s my broken brain. Instead of telling me I’m not good enough, it latches onto grades. They aren’t good enough. But then they never are. Even when they’re straight As.

It took a while to find an anti-depressant that took the edge off without dulling me completely. The first one made me tired. The second kept me from coming. The third gave me nightmares. This one is tolerable. It pushes all those thoughts about hurting myself to the back of my head.

If I keep up my routine—healthy diet, not too much sugar, just enough caffeine, cardio every day, journaling every night—those ugly thoughts stay at bay.

But they never go away.

And they never will.

I’m broken.

I’ll always be broken.

I’ve accepted it, mostly.

But no one else has. No one else knows.

If they find out, they’ll leave.

So, I keep it to myself. I keep all my writing—the poems, the stories, the journal entries—to myself.

Fan fiction is fine, but anything personal—that’s mine.

I write things from my heart all the time. Words get caught in my throat and I spill my guts on the page. It’s like that expression. How do you write? It’s easy. You just cut yourself and bleed on the page.

Only there’s nothing in the expression about guarding your scars with your life.

Writing in my journal makes me feel at peace.

Writing, period, makes me feel at peace.

It’s my favorite thing in the world.

But I’m not brave or foolish enough to share it with anyone.

That means it’s staying a hobby.

That means it’s staying mine.

I fall back on my bed. It’s still covered in my Little Mermaid bedspread. I’ve had it since I was a kid. Emma’s addiction to Disney movies is contagious. I love all the Disney princesses too. Every one of them.

But there’s something special about Ariel. She knows exactly what she wants. She’s fascinated by the human world. Even though it’s strange and foreign, she wants to be a part of it. And she’s willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen. Even give up her family. Her home. Her voice.

I want to be that bold.

That sure of myself.

But here—my journal—is the only place I can really hear my voice.

I bring my pen to the page and I let all the ugly thoughts in my head flow through my pen.

I want to show this to someone.

No, not to someone.

To him.

But there’s too much risk. He might run in the other direction.

One day, I’ll be brave enough to open my heart.

I close my journal and trace the Latin saying scribbled over the back.

Serva Me, Servabo Te.

Save me and I’ll save you.

I want that. One day.

But it’s as much of a fairy tale as The Little Mermaid.

Chapter Seven

Kaylee

I’m still in my pajamas, fixing coffee and tea, when Brendon knocks on the door.

“Hey.” His steady voice flows through the wood.

“Give me a minute.” I’ve worn this exact outfit at his place a hundred times. But right now it feels too revealing, too personal.

I move to my room, grab the outfit I laid out last night. High-waisted shorts and a v-neck t-shirt. Cute. Flattering. Practical.

I change as quickly as I can, dart back to the door, pull it open. “Hey.”