The Art of Kissing by Jessica Sorensen

 

 

Raven

Water is pouring over me.Warm water. Not like the water in the lake. The water that nearly took me away. The water that I almost wanted to take me away.

Let me lay here,

Deep inside the darkness,

Where I can never breathe the toxic air,

Again.

The air made of lies, pain, and agony.

The air of life.

Just let me die.

Why didn’t you let me die—

I gasp, becoming aware that I’m holding my breath as I stand underneath the waterfall of the faucet. I suck in a breath, and then another, trying to get rid of this pressure inside my chest. But it remains, squeezing and crushing, as if begging me to just stop breathing.

I thought that, after Jaxon saved me, I would be perfectly okay. I felt okay at first, but then I got in the shower, underneath the water, and it all came rushing back to me.

I can’t breathe.

I’m going to die.

Maybe I just should.

The thing is, I swear I have had those thoughts before, swear I have been in a similar situation before, when water almost swept me away from the pain forever. I’m not sure when that would have happened, though. I mean, for as long as I can remember, I have been terrified of water. I thought it was because I can’t swim, but maybe there’s a darker reason. One my parents kept from me.

Why would they do that?

I’m not sure.

I’m not sure about anything anymore.

I can’t help thinking, though, about how I keep having these images of me spending time with a younger Jax and Hunter. That makes no sense. I have never been to Honeyton before … right?

Who the fuck knows? I used to think I knew, yet I’m starting to question everything about my damn life.

Sucking in a breath, I shut off the shower then climb out.

Hunter told me there were towels in one of the cabinets, but I forgot to grab one, so I end up leaving water all over the floor as I hurry over to grab a towel.

After I dry off, I wipe up the mess from the floor then start to get dressed. I feel weird inside— lost, confused, pressurized—as I think about how, once I get dressed, I’m going to have to go out there and probably discuss how I will be moving in with the guys. Part of me doesn’t want to, not because I want to live with my aunt and uncle, but because it makes me feel like a burden. It’s something I have felt for so damn long, more than I would like to admit.

“I hate that she’s here,” I heard my aunt say the first day I moved in with them.

I was in the next room, standing there with my suitcase and a box filled with the only belongings my uncle would let me take. He had made me donate the rest of my stuff, said there wasn’t enough room in the car for it, even though he had been driving a truck.

“You know she probably killed them, right?” my aunt added, not bothering to lower her voice.

She had to have known I could hear her, and I wanted to scream at her to shut the hell up, but the words felt heavy on my tongue. Everything felt heavy.

Numb.

I had started to feel numb, as if I had bleed out with my parents in that house.

Part of me wished I had.

“No one knows what really happened,” my uncle said, and I thought he was defending me until he added, “And I have to take her in. Do I want to? No, not at all. No one wants a damaged kid like that living under their roof.”

Again, I wanted to scream, but what would be the point? It wouldn’t change anything. And, deep down, I knew he was right. I was damaged.

“Still am,” I whisper to myself as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

I look like shit. Dark circles reside under my eyes, and my skin looks as pale as the damn snow that lined that river. And my stupid fucking chest, it won’t stop tightening. I swear the bastard is about to explode.

Just breathe, Raven.

Air in. Air out.

The more I try to will myself to breathe, the harder it becomes. I’m veering toward a panic attack—I can feel it. Usually, whenever this happens, I take a hit or do a line. Unfortunately, the water ruined what I had on me, and the rest of my stash is back at home.

I feel twitchy, like I’m about to crawl out of my skin. I need to get this panic out of me, and the only other alternative I can think of is to do something I haven’t done in a while, mostly because I turned to getting high as an easier alternative.

I start opening drawers until I find what I’m looking for—a razor. Weirdly, there’s a whole box of them. I mean, it’s not completely uncommon for someone to have them, but a lot of people don’t have a whole damn box of them. And they are stuffed in the back, beneath a bunch of other stuff, as if someone is trying to hide them.

I pick one up and hold it in my hand, just staring at it for a moment. It’s been a while, mostly because the last time I did it, I accidentally cut too deep. At least, that’s what I tell myself. The truth is that, deep inside the crevasse of my mind, where I have hidden all my forgotten memories, I know that it wasn’t an accident. I was trying to bleed it all out of me. That fucking pain that I swear has been slowly eating away at me from the inside for six years now. It gets so bad sometimes that it feels like my veins have been filled with shards of glass that nick and cut and slice away at me whenever I don’t have a grasp on myself.

Control.

For me, staying in control is the best thing possible.

The problem is that I’m living in a life where I’m relying on others.

I want to escape.

I want to be free.

I want it to be just me and myself where not a single other force can control what’s going on inside and outside of me.

As my chest starts trying to crush my lungs again, and those shards of glass whisper in delight, I put the tip of the razor to my wrist and slice.

The wounds on my side match the throbbing in the flesh wound on my wrist.

Freak.

Murderer.

Disappointment.

Yes, Ravenlee, you are a fucking walking disappointment.

I move my hand over to the sink as blood begins to weep from the open wound. It stains the porcelain white sink with droplets of that stupid pain that is eating at me from the inside.

For a moment, I feel like I can breathe.

I hunch over, my shoulders sinking and my head lowering as I take a deep breath.

Air in. Air out. Air in …

I exhale, and it’s not as heavy, all the pressure zeroed in on that wound.

I remain that way for a while, just letting myself bleed over the sink. All alone.

All alone with nothing but numbness to accompany me.