Microwaveable macaroni cheese. It’s what’s for dinner. I pierce the film lid twelve times and blast it with radiation for twenty seconds longer than the instructions say I should. You can never be too careful when it comes to undercooked anything.
I sit down at the table and fork my way through the gloopy white sauce. Every bite makes my insides clench and then gurgle, but I power through, remind myself that I have to eat to stay alive.
Despite appearances, it’s not the worst meal I’ve ever had. Mom gets me this brand of mac and cheese especially because they don’t put ground pepper in it, which saves me from the indignity of having to sift through mountains of melted cheese just to fish out the almost invisible black bits.
The clock claws its way to 6.00 p.m., and I’m forced to mute my Hub feed, because if I get one more notification about how much fun people are having with their Friday night, I’m going to break the shit out of my phone.
After I’m done eating, I head down the hall. I’m checking the lock and the bolt on the door for the eighth time when I hear voices. My heart hammers in my ears. Luke.
Don’t look. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, I think as I make my way over to the porch window. It’s just a window; it shouldn’t hold so much sentimentality for me, but it does, and when I peek through the curtains, tears sting my eyes.
Luke is standing in his driveway with a blonde girl, some chick with a nose ring, and this dude wearing a Death’s Head band tee under a tuxedo jacket.
Another party. Another dance.
That’s why my phone’s been lighting up. The guys are all wearing tailored jackets. The girls are decked out like a couple of Christmas trees in dresses that twinkle under the dying sun. Smiles all around, excited chatter; I feel like I’m watching a coming-of-age sitcom. Luke climbs in the driver’s side of his truck. Blonde girl climbs in beside him. His date? Maybe. The other guy and girl dash off and jump into their own car, one that has streaks of orange flames painted up the sides. I startle when Luke’s car growls to life.
I will him to look up, to look over at my house. I beg, plead, pray, but without taking a single glance this way, he reverses out on to the road and speeds off, closely followed by the second car.
I turn around; heavy eyes survey my empty house. Still. Silent. Alone. I’m transported to a cold place. A lonely back alley that’s never seen a single ray of sun, that forever collects rain. I feel any colour that my skin was holding on to roll right off and pool around my ankles.
This is my fault.
I broke something beautiful.
I cut away the one thing that made me feel like I wasn’t just waiting for death, and I did it because I let my mind run riot.
He was right. I wasn’t angry because he kissed me. I didn’t tell him to leave because he made a mistake. We came undone when I let my insecurities take control. Because I was obsessing over everything I wasn’t, and everything I thought he wanted.
I should have listened to him. Trusted him.
Anxiety wraps itself around my lungs like frozen vines. It squeezes and squeezes until I can’t breathe. I’m falling, fast, and there’s only one way I can think of to stop it.
My legs feel like they belong to someone else as I climb the mountainous staircase. I’m sobbing by the time I reach the top. The world is turning so quickly. I just want it to stop. I want my heart to stop hammering. I want thoughts to leave me alone. I’ve been thinking for so long. My brain is blistered. It hurts to use my head right now.
My muscles are mush as I stumble into the bathroom, thump on the light, and snatch the side of the sink to steady myself.
My reflection makes me feel sick. I grip the basin so tightly my knuckles pop. I wonder if I cut deep enough whether I’ll be able to keep my mind from mixing me up indefinitely.
‘You sabotaged me. Why won’t you just leave me alone?’ I scream, then reach for the scissors. My wrist catches a carton of cotton buds, and they fall from the cabinet, rain down on the floor. It makes me think of summer with my gran, blowing dandelions in her garden and dancing in the floating seeds.
God, I miss that girl, the one who could twirl barefoot in the garden.
I sink to the floor, scissors in my hand. I haven’t seen the last cut I made. I’ve felt it sting against my jeans, but the second that stopped, I pushed the incident to the back of my mind. It’s easier to live with yourself if you do that.