Chapter 16

AGE 12, JANUARY

It starts out as an accident,the first time it happens.

I hiss, flinching, when a starburst of pain explodes across my inner arm.

I drop my bag, my gaze catching on the jagged metal wire poking out of where I hadn't fully zipped it. A notebook coil that must've gotten caught on something, and unraveled.

I lift my arm, frowning down at the small, papercut-like slice just above my wrist. It's small, maybe half an inch long. Lips pursed, I reach over with my free hand, and rub my fingers into the surrounding skin. And then I'm squeezing and stretching and pushing at the skin, watching the way blood bubbles up. And a voice from somewhere deep inside me says, "More."

I don't understand it.

Why it feels…important. It's just a cut. Not the first, and definitely won't be the last. How many times have I scraped my hands or knees over the years playing outside? On splinters. From papercuts flipping through my comic books too fast.

I cock my head, watching, waiting, my heart thumping loudly in my ears.

Last week, Izzy put on a movie called Thirteen.

I wasn't really paying attention for most of it. Only reason I didn't go up to my room is because Mason asked me to stay. He wasn't really paying attention to the movie either. He was flipping through some rock and roll history book that he'd gotten for Christmas—a gift from Gavin. It was like a magazine, but hardcover, with pictures of famous guitarists and drummers, and article clippings and interviews.

So while he read through that, and the others watched the movie, I worked on my comic book—my secret one—making sure to sit against the wall, between them and the TV, so no one could see.

"Oh, ew ew ew," I remember Izzy squealing, and I looked up just in time to see her bury her face in Mason's shoulder. He was sitting on one side of her, the side closest to me. Waylon was on the other side, laughing, poking fun at her for being squeamish.

On the TV, one of the girls, who was apparently this good girl turned bad, getting in all sorts of trouble…she was digging a razor blade into her arm.

My eyes widened at the sight, my drawing forgotten.

I wanted to look away.

It was…well, not gross. I don't know what it was, but it made me feel…funny. Curious.

I felt like I was watching something I shouldn't.

And I remember Izzy asking, "Why would she do that? Is she trying to kill herself?" and thinking to myself, No, no, that's not why, though I had no idea how I knew that. I'd never seen something like this before. The girl…she was hurting herself…because she was upset…

And it stayed with me. Like a song I couldn't get out of my head, the image of that girl cutting into her skin and crying and yet…smiling…like she felt better…

I couldn't shake it.

But I also didn't think too much on it either.

Not until now.

Watching the blood bubble up, feeling the sting of it as I squeeze the skin around it, remembering that rush of hot pain shooting up my arm…

There's a pulsing in my ears now, making me feel like I'm underwater.

I swallow a couple times, and inhale deeply, feeling my chest rise.

I hold it until it hurts.

And then I release it.

All the while, my eyes remain fastened to that thin stream of red staining my wrist.

It'll heal, I tell myself. Won't even scar.

And for some reason, I frown at that.

"Jeremy?" Mom calls from downstairs, and I snap my head, eyes wide. Like a spell has broken, I quickly wipe my arm on my jeans, as if to hide the evidence.

It was an accident.

It was.

But for some reason…

It doesn't feel like one.