I break eye contact and look down at my hand that’s gripping the edge of the podium like I could break it. “You see, I knew I had loads of people who cared about me. But I couldn’t believe any of them. Not one. I was too entrenched in this emotional world of misery and horror. I felt alone and pointless and utterly wasted here on this earth. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. I wanted nothingness. I wanted fucking oblivion.”
I snap out of my private reverie when I realise my very blatant curse. My mother shoots me a proper scowl and I purse my lips together to reel myself back in. “Having someone walk in on you just as you’ve thrashed your wrists to ribbons is ten times worse than having someone walk in on you in the loo. It’s horrifying and you curse yourself for not locking the bloody door. Why didn’t I lock the door? Why did she come in at that time?
“Regardless of the whys, the way she looked at me…The way her terrified gaze met mine made me realise far too late that I was living in the wrong world. Seeing myself through the look in her eyes made me desperate to take it all back. I wanted to save this poor woman from the absolute pain that my choice was causing her.”
Leslie shakes her head at me incredulously as we have a silent conversation amongst the several hundred people in the audience. My brother, Theo, moves to wrap a protective arm around her shoulder. He pulls her to him and I see a small tear slip out from beneath his thick-framed glasses. My heart lurches at the sight. There’s something utterly raw and humbling about witnessing your strong, older brother break down. His love for me after everything that’s happened still floors me. It crushes me in the most vulnerable and real way. The honesty of it is almost too much for me to take.
Leslie’s eyes don’t flicker to Theo’s, though. They stay locked on mine in a silent chastisement. I continue quickly before she marches on stage and curses me out for continuing to apologise over what I put her through. Because Leslie Lincoln is just the type to do that.
“This woman who walked in on me skidded to the floor in an evening gown and scooped me up. She held my head in her lap and my life in her hands as her real, wet tears dripped onto my face.”
I close my eyes and recall her shaky hands holding my wrists tightly to help stop the flow of blood. Her frantic fumbling to call 999 on her phone. Her crying. Her questioning. Her pain. I laid there lifelessly watching this nearly perfect stranger desperate to save my life.
“I realised in that moment that reality and emotions can live in entirely differently worlds,” I frown, desperate for the audience to understand exactly what I feel so strongly in my heart. “And nothing was more real than what I had just done to this poor innocent person. Watching her cry as she stood above me was more painful than the slits I had carved into my wrists. It was more painful than the pain I felt in my heart leading up to that moment. Living in the world of my misery and wanting to leave it was unrealistic. I was running away. And looking into the eyes of just one person who gave a damn—especially someone who didn’t know me all that well at the time—was such a beautiful reality that I didn’t even know existed.”
I clench my jaw to stop the tears that like to come every time I picture Leslie in that one horrendous moment. The agony I put her through is soul-crushing. But it’s also exactly what makes my decision to continue living so incredibly easy. I never want to put that hurt on her face again, or anyone else’s for that matter.
“I can’t take away the pain that I’ve caused everyone close to me. But I can keep continuing to fight the darkness that I nearly let swallow me whole. And I’m not just doing that for myself. I’m doing that for the person who saved my life…and the person who lost hers.”
Flashes of my older sister, Marisa, and her wild blonde hair blast through my thoughts, and my chest does the strange shuttering thing it does every time I think of her.
“I couldn’t even say my sister’s name a year ago,” I croak and reach down to touch my cuffs again. “But now I’m able to say her name every single day.” I smile picturing Baby Marisa and her red, peach-fuzzed head and huge round cheeks. “And saying her name feels a hell of a lot better than that blade did across my wrists.”
I look up and the audience seems completely frozen. No stopping now, Hayden. You’re nearly there. “Most people would assume I wear these cuffs to hide my scars,” I say, holding both my wrists up. “But the truth is I wear them to band my reality to me. And my new reality…is to live everyday…for Marisa.”
I pause as an awkward silence stretches over the room. It’s the emotional and uncomfortable looks of an audience unsure whether to applaud or stay silent. They stay silent, which I’m grateful for. This isn’t something to applaud. Not everything needs a pretty fucking bow at the end.
I walk off the stage without another glance at anyone, willing myself to hold my head high. As soon as I’m concealed behind the curtain, I bend over and take in huge gulps of air. I did it. I fucking did it. I said I could and I did. No one thought I should. Not my mother or my doctor. Not even Leslie. But I proved to them what I was desperate to prove to myself.
I’m not weak anymore.
PUMMELED FANTASY
Bloody hell.