Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Starling

W hen I leave, I feel different. Not better, but my thoughts are a little clearer, and panic isn't making it hard to breathe.

Now that I'm able to think, I know there's another place I need to go before I go back and face everything.

The center looks the same way it always did—largely uninviting with its gray bricks and nondescript signage. However, much like the drab rooms in a hospital, this is the place I came to heal. I might not have realized it at the time, but they gave me tools that, when I was ready, I was able to draw on.

I push through the security door and walk over to the receptionist, who smiles and looks up at me through her half-moon glasses.

"Hello, how can I help you, dear?"

"Hi, I used to come here a few years ago. They did group meetings for people with um… issues like eating disorders and self-harming behaviors."

"Oh yes, we still do those. Today's session started ten minutes ago. The next one is tomorrow evening at seven p.m."

"I'm not sure if I can make it back tomorrow. Would I possibly be able to sneak into today's?"

"We don't usually allow anyone to enter once a meeting has started."

My shoulders sag.

"But I don't think it'll matter just this once. If they ask, tell them Penny said it was okay."

"I will, thank you."

"You're welcome, hon."

The phone beside her rings, so she answers it as I walk away, heading to the room where the meetings always used to be held.

Sure enough, I find a group of people sitting around in a circle as I look through the small window before opening the door quietly. All eyes turn my way, making me flush. The therapist frowns at me before recognition lights up his face, making me offer him a small smile.

There's something vaguely familiar about him, but honestly, when I used to come here, my focus was on trying to stay upright. The faces of the doctors and therapists all blended together.

"Welcome, come take a seat."

I take the last empty seat between an emaciated woman who's probably twice my age and a guy maybe a few years older than me with face tattoos similar to Post Malone's. I don't think he's here because of a music affiliation, though, but a gang one.

"Jacob here was just telling us about his week. Please continue."

Jacob, the guy beside me, nods, looking down at his beat-up sneakers.

"I went to Marjorie's grave. I told her I was sorry. I thought joining a gang would give us better protection. I…" He buries his head in his hands, taking a moment to get himself together.

We all wait silently until he lifts his head, his eyes red as he fights back his tears.

"She was raped, and as part of my initiation, I was supposed to watch. When I tried to stop them, they slit her throat and killed her. I lost my mom and my sister that day. My mom to the bottle, my sister to the people I thought were my brothers. And I have no one to blame but myself."

"You didn't kill your sister; they did. You didn't make your mother pick up the bottle; she did that to herself," the counselor points out, but Jacob shakes his head.

I understand. The counselor isn't wrong, but neither is Jacob. Guilt, whether misplaced or justified, is a heavy burden to carry and let go of. Everyone needs somebody to blame, even if it means pointing a finger at ourselves.

It's a process. Letting go of that burden is far harder than anyone understands. After guilt comes acceptance and eventually forgiveness, but not everyone wants that.

I will never accept what happened to me, and I'll never forgive those who hurt me. That means I'm forever stuck in my guilty era, asking questions like, was it my fault? Did I do something to deserve this? Did I say too much or not enough? Could I have fought harder, screamed?—

I blow out an angry breath, refusing to let the toxic whispers taunt me.

"Would you like to share something?"

When no one answers, I look up from my lap and realize the counselor is talking to me. I'm about to shake my head but stop myself. Since I probably won't ever be coming back, I start talking without really knowing what I'm going to say.

"I cut myself last night. I used to do it before, but someone I cared about found out and made me promise I'd stop, so I did. I didn't want her to stop loving me because I was weak or to ever look at me that way again. I never broke that promise, not when things were bad, not even when she died. But I broke it last night."

"Do you know what triggered you?"

"Yes. Someone's been using my love against me, and last night they pushed me too far. I knew the person I cared about would get hurt. I could see it coming, but I couldn't stop it. It all came to a head this morning."

"Did you cut yourself this morning, too?"

"I had the blade in my hand, but instead of my usual spot, I held it to my wrist."

The woman beside me gasps, and the counselor's eyes bore into mine.

"I didn't cut. I threw the blade across the room and ended up here."

"That was brave," someone says.

I look over and see a girl a few years younger than me, watching with interest. She holds up her arms, revealing crisis-cross scars.

"I hate myself when I cut, except for that moment when the blade breaks my skin and I see the first bead of blood," she admits.

"It doesn't last," I tell her. "The highs become harder to chase because they end up further and further out of reach. I relapsed, but as I was cutting, something felt different. There was no pleasure. No calm. Whatever power it had over me isn't there anymore. I think I just fell back on old habits because my life exploded yet again, and I'm just so fucking tired of it."

"I don't know how to stop. I feel myself panicking if I don't have a blade nearby," she whispers.

I look at the counselor, wondering if he wants to take over, but he just nods at me to continue. I share more than I intended. "I don't know your story, but mine's full of monsters."

The man beside me shifts. I feel all eyes on me, but I ignore them and focus on the girl. "Looking back, I think part of me was punishing myself for drawing their attention. Now the monsters are dead and gone, and I refuse to let their ghosts haunt me. They stole my childhood. I'm not giving them my adulthood too."

"But you still cut yourself," she points out.

"Recovery isn't easy. It's not a straight path. There will always be bumps and dips in the road and unforgiving terrain for me to navigate. Sometimes I'll stumble, and other times I'll get turned around and go backward. Hell, aren't all of us here a little lost? The trick is to keep going. All paths lead somewhere, right? If you stay still, if you change nothing, nothing will change. And one day, all these people here will gather and find an empty seat where you used to sit because you cut too deep." I blow out a breath, knowing I'm rambling. I tend to do that when I'm nervous.

"I stumbled a little yesterday, so I took a different path, and it led me here."

She's quiet as she strokes her thumb over one of her scars. I can see her thinking, but she doesn't say anything for the rest of the session.

When the session is over, the counselor pulls me aside and asks if I'm okay or if I need additional help. Assuming "additional help" means a stay in the psych ward, I tell him I'm fine now and head out.

When I get outside, I find the girl standing there looking scared but hopeful.

"Hi. Um… hey…" she stutters, biting on the sleeve of her top, which is now pulled down over her hands to hide her scars.

"Hey."

"I'm Kate. I know I'm making this weird, but would you maybe want to get some ice cream or something? My mom won't be here for another hour because she's at work, and?—"

I smile and nod. "Ice cream sounds really good. I'm Starling, by the way. Oh crap, I didn't bring my wallet. Rain check?"

"No worries, it's on me. Please, I… Um, have some questions that I think only you might be able to answer."

"I'm a mess, Kate, but I won't say no to free ice cream."

She beams a pretty smile at me. We walk in silence to the small ice cream shop around the corner, where she orders us both two scoops of chocolate fudge ice cream. We sit in a booth near the window and start eating. I can see she's getting up the nerve to talk, so I wait.

"Did you tell your mom?"

I pause with the spoon halfway to my mouth, alarm bells going off in my head. "My mom died when I was born."

"Oh God, I'm sorry." She shrinks in on herself.

"You didn't know, and it's okay. I didn't know her. It's not the same as losing someone you've spent years loving."

"I guess. I can't imagine not having my mom, though."

"I'm glad you have her. Can I ask you something?" She nods warily. "Did someone hurt you?" I ask quietly.

She looks like she's two seconds away from bolting before she breaks down into tears. "My mom's boyfriend, Daryl."

I close my eyes and try to fight back my rage as I reach for her hands, the ice cream now forgotten. "Did you tell your mom?"

She shakes her head rapidly. "She loves him, and she deserves to be happy. She might not find anyone else, not when she has a teenage daughter."

I grit my teeth. "Those sound like words that came from someone else."

"She was alone for a long time after my dad died. She was always sad. Daryl makes her happy. If I just hold on until I'm eighteen, I can go away to college, and nobody will ever know."

"What if she has kids with him?"

Kate freezes, like the thought never crossed her mind.

"What if, when you leave, he turns on her?"

Her mouth falls open, fear in her eyes.

"You've spent a long time protecting her, right?" She nods. "Maybe it's time to let her protect you."

"What if she doesn't believe me? What if she chooses him?" she whispers, terror bleeding into her voice, revealing her biggest fear.

"Then she doesn't deserve you or your protection."

She squeezes my hand to the point of pain. "Will you—" she pauses, swallowing hard. "Will you stay with me while I tell her?"

I don't know if that's the right move, but if she needs me by her side, then that's where I'll be. "Yes." She releases a relieved breath. "Can I call her?"

"Why? You won't tell her, will you?"

"No. But I think we should see if she can leave work early before you change your mind."

She hands me her phone after unlocking it and dialing her mom.

"Hey Kate, everything okay? How was counseling?" she asks without taking a breath.

"Hi, my name's Starling. I'm a friend of Kate's."

"Is she okay?" I can hear the worry in her voice, and it settles something inside me. She cares. I have to believe they'll both be okay and come out of this stronger.

"She had a bit of a breakthrough in group today. She really needs to talk?—"

"I'm on my way," she interrupts.

"We're at the ice cream shop around the corner from the center."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes." She hangs up.

I slide Kate's phone back to her. She stares at it for a moment before she looks at me with tears in her eyes.

"She's on her way."

"Did she seem mad?"

"No, worried. She loves you, Kate."

"I know." She bites her lip. "What happened to the person who hurt you?"

"There was more than one person. My story's a little different than yours."

"Do you still think about it?"

"Sometimes. But I don't think about them. I think about myself. I think about the little girl who had so much potential. I miss her. I grieve for her as if she died because, in a way, she did. I think about her a lot. Grief's like that, you know? It sticks with you, gnaws at you. I haven't accepted it and probably never will. But I'm learning to live with it."

"Are you still scared?"

"Yes. Because I know monsters are real. I'm scared every day, but I don't hide under the bed anymore. I remind myself that despite everything that happened to me, I'm still here. I survived because I never stopped holding on."

She files those words away before she goes back to eating her now-melted ice cream.

No more words are exchanged until the door opens, and a frantic-looking woman hurries in. She scans the room, and when she spots Kate, she rushes over and tugs her up into her arms.

"You're okay? You're okay," she repeats, reassuring herself.

"But I'm not okay, Mom," she whispers, looking at me. She sits back down, and I watch her summon all her courage as her mom sits beside her and takes her hand.

The next twenty minutes are like watching a movie play out. There are tears, horror, anger, and guilt until, finally, they hug.

Kate's mom looks up at me over her daughter's head. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. It was all Kate."

"What happens now?" Kate asks quietly, looking up, unsure.

And that's when this small, wary woman turns into a protective mama bear with fire in her eyes and vengeance in her heart.

"We go to the police. We get that motherfucker out of our home, and we set fire to anything he leaves behind," she snarls.

Kate flings her arms around her mom again, and I take that as my cue to leave. I slide out of the booth and head for the door, slipping out when a couple around my age opens it and walks through hand in hand.

I'm halfway across the parking lot when I hear my name being shouted. "Starling!"

I turn just in time to catch Kate as she barrels into me, wrapping her arms around me and squeezing me tight.

"Thank you."

I fight back my tears and hold her, knowing she's going to be okay. She pulls back and looks up at me as I notice her mom standing near the door, watching with her hand over her heart.

"Can I call you sometime? You know, if I need to talk or I?—"

"Yes. You can call or text me anytime. Do you have your phone?"

She pulls it from her pocket and hands it to me. I quickly add my number and hand it back as her mom walks over and wraps her arm around her daughter.

"Can I drop you off anywhere?"

I open my mouth to say no, but I hesitate; I'm not sure my legs will carry me all the way home. "That would be great, actually. Thank you."

"It's the least I can do."

"No, you don't owe me anything. Knowing Kate has a mother like you is more than enough. Actually, you both helped me figure something out—well, you and another mom and daughter I met today."

"Oh yeah, what's that?"

"What I want to do with the rest of my life."

Kate looks at me, confused, but her mom nods knowingly.

I smile—my first real one today.

If I can't help myself, I can at least help others.