Stay With Me

The waiting room was cold and sterile, something I appreciated right then. The walls were painted in a boring beige colour, and the dark brown faux leather couches were comfortable enough to sit in but not quite enough to make you feel at home. The sturdy, dark brown coffee table in the centre of the room was littered with old, wrinkled magazines, which ranged from woman’s gossip magazines to National Geographic. I tried to stop my body from shaking as I sat, my eyes wondering around the room in panic as I forced myself to remain seated. I promised Frank I would go through with the meeting, even if it killed me. He didn’t appreciate my humour when I said that.

The thought of Frank makes my stomach churn uncomfortably. He was the main reason I’m stuck here in this waiting room, feeling like my heart was about to burst through my chest and my lungs are going to burn out from the lack of proper oxygen. I try to force the memories of last Friday out of my mind, but my brain is punishing me by making it the only thing I can think about. I could still smell the blood and taste the salty tears that had run down my cheeks that evening, and when I closed my eyes the scene replayd for me.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Seeing HIM at my Mother’s birthday party was the final nail in the coffin that was my broken sanity. My breathing was rushed and painful as I tried to push the memories of the pain and hate deep down inside where they had remained for so long, but it no longer worked. Since the party five days ago I could feel all the anguish come flooding back, the self loathing and helplessness that I had managed to hide all these years had manifested to the point where I couldn’t hide from it any more. After all these years of avoiding seeing him again, he proved that he still had power over me. Bringing my boyfriend had led me into a false sense of security; it made me believe that I was protected. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough to stop him. It was his mission in life to destroy everything I was, and he took pleasure in it even now. I would never be free of him. Those were the words he spoke to me, and he proved it that night when he cornered me. He would never let me be, because even if I stayed out of his presence I would never escape my past. He destroyed my teenage years, and with it he stole my future. Everything I did revolved around him and what he did to me. I would never be free.

My boyfriend could see something was wrong, but I couldn’t tell him the truth. He wouldn’t believe me, I knew he wouldn’t. I had been told again and again that it was his word against mine, and who would people believe. The quiet little girl who use to lie to get attention after her father’s death and mother’s subsequent re-marriage, or the straight ‘A’ grade jock who was on the student council. The answer was obvious. Even though I was twenty five it was still true. He had built himself a successful career after college, while I managed to get myself a decent job in a lawyer’s office. Compared to him, I was a disappointment. So I kept it all inside, but it wouldn’t stay below the surface anymore.

The cold steel of the razor blade was calling me again. My skin craved its touch again, my sub consciousness cried for the relief it use to bring me during the years of abuse. I had stopped while in college, when the habit became harder to hide while sharing a dorm with other people. Instead, I learnt to crush it down under the weight of college work and drinking parties. By the time I had finished the habit was long gone. Until now.

My hands shook as I wringed them together, my breaths were coming out in whimpers as I tried to calm down and ignore the siring need in my body for the once much loved release. The voice inside my head was telling me that there was a way out of this, there was only one way of freeing myself from him and the hold he still had over me. It was in the bathroom cabinet, innocently placed among the beauty products, toiletries and medicines. It would be so easy to take all the pain away. Nobody would miss me. My mother might grieve for me for a short while, but her remarriage six months after my father’s death had proved that she could move on quickly. Frank would be better off, he could find someone who wasn’t fucked up and broken. I was damaged beyond repair, and he was perfect. I don’t deserve him, and I was a fool to think that I would ever be worthy of his love.

I didn’t remember dragging my feet from the living room to the bathroom. I didn’t remember staring at my reflection in the mirror before opening the doors of the cabinet. I didn’t remember seeing the razor blade, or grabbing the plastic handle and breaking it to free the steel blades. But I did remember the rush I felt when I dragged it along the vein and felt the stinging pain. I remembered with vivid detail the red colour as it rose to the surface and stained my skin, which seemed so vibrant and alive. I remember the blue colour of my vein being marred by the blade as I made short little cuts at first. It was as though I was testing if my body could still take the pain. It didn’t just take the pain; it relished in it. The air that left my lungs almost sounded like my body was in the throes of ecstasy. Once I started I couldn’t stop. The short sharp cuts became longer and deep, and suddenly it no longer became about temporary relief. I wanted the blood to keep on pouring out of my dirty body; I wanted my soul to be freed from the torture it had endured for the last thirteen years. The tears poured down my cheeks as I tightened my hold on the thin blade, and with delicacy and precision I pressed and dragged it from my wrist to the crook of my arm. I repeated it on my other arm before I curled up on the linoleum floor.

I was unconscious when Frank arrived into our apartment, calling out my name and hearing no response. He searched the kitchen and bedroom before checking the bathroom. If I had been awake I would have seen the colour drain from his face and his perfect round hazel eyes widen in shock at the sight of his girlfriend cut up and bleeding in a pool of her own blood. I would have watched as he dialled 911 and spoke to the operator with panic and fear in his voice. I would have felt how he clutched by body helplessly and cried while he waited for the paramedics to arrive. He only left my side to open the door for them when they pounded on the wooden door with urgency. He followed me into the ambulance and stared at them with disbelief as they put an oxygen mask on me and tried to stop the bleeding. He winced when I was deemed out of immediate danger and strapped to the hospital bed in a private room, where he sat on a chair all night and watched me sleep while my body recovered from the blood loss and blood transfusion.

When they released me the next evening after the obligatory twenty four hour watch, during which they forced me to sit with a psychiatrist who tried to get me to talk, he held my hand as we got a cab home. He sat me on the couch while he cleaned up my blood in the bathroom, and gave me a cup of coffee to sip on when he came back. He didn’t make me talk that night, instead he held me when I began to sob in pain. It wasn’t until the following day he told me that in no uncertain terms, I was going to talk to somebody. He begged and pleaded with me to tell him why I did it, he wanted to ‘understand what I was thinking’. The words were lost in my throat and I couldn’t speak, I could do nothing but stare at him with wide tearful eyes that pleaded with him to drop it. I knew it hurt him that I wouldn’t talk to him, but I didn’t want him to know the truth about me, about how dirty I was. His voice became hard and cold when he informed me I was going to see a therapist the next day. I tried to tell him that it wasn’t necessary, that I was okay but he wouldn’t have it. He begged me to go, to give him some piece of mind. He gazed at me with helpless, puppy dog eyes that filled my conscience with guilt. After what I had put him through, he deserved that much. So I agreed.

My trip down memory lane was broken by the sound of a door opening, followed by the shuffling of feet. My unfocused eyes land on the source of the noise, to find it was a man. In order to distract myself from the meeting I was about to have I took him in with unblinking eyes. He stood at around 5’8, with raven black hair that was slightly too long. His eyes appeared to be a light brown colour, but it was hard to tell when he wasn’t looking at me. He was clothed in jeans and black jacket. He sat down on the couch opposite me without as much as a glance in my direction. I looked away from him before he could catch me staring. I assumed he was here to see one of the other two therapists in the practice. My legs were twitching in nervousness, and my breathing was becoming erratic. I didn’t want to do this. I couldn’t do this. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on Frank, and the pleading look he gave me when he begged me to come here. I didn’t want to let him down, but I didn’t know if I could open up after all these years of keeping everything inside. It was too much to ask. He didn’t realise just what he was asking of me, he couldn’t see that I wasn’t ready for this. He saw a problem and thought this was the solution.

‘Hey, are you okay?’

The voice made me open my eyes. They were met with a kind pair of golden hazel eyes, which were filled with empathy. My throat seized up on me, so I responded my shaking my head.

‘Is this your first time coming here?’

I gave a curt nod. A smile of understanding appeared on his face.

‘I remember my first time coming here. I was a wreck; I was shaking worse than you are now. That was six months ago. The first session is the hardest, but once you start talking you’ll feel better. Trust me. Just open up, be honest and everything will be fine. Who are you here to see?’ his voice was soothing; the New Jersey drawl was easing my fragile nerves. I knew what he was trying to do and I was grateful.

‘Dr. Manning’ I whispered.

The man nodded.

‘She’s good, you’re in good hands.’

He was about to say more but he was cut when the door to one of the offices opened, revealing a short blonde hair woman with glasses.

‘Grace Cassidy?’ she smiled at me, trying to seem harmless and welcoming.

I wasn’t fooled for one second. I looked at the man with frightened eyes, silently pleading for him to somehow save me. I wasn’t ready for this. I never would be. Right now all my instincts were telling me to bolt out of the room and run away I couldn’t talk to her, she wouldn’t understand me. Nobody could.

‘It’s okay’ he whispered, giving me a reassuring smile.

Somehow it made it feel better, and it gave me hope. I thought about what he had told me, about how he was a mess when he came here. He said things will get better right? He was here, and he seemed to be doing okay. Could that be me in six months? The only thing I knew for sure was that I would never know if I didn’t try. I nodded at him and took in a deep breath, before standing up and following the blonde woman into her room. Before I reached the door I turned around, and found he was still looking at me.

‘Thank you’ I mouthed, before crossing the threshold to face my fears.

Notes

Hi Everybody,

This will be regularly updated once Three is a Crowd is finished. This is completely different than my other stories, I wanted to try and write something a bit more serious.

Please comment and let me know what you think. Constructive criticism and opinions are greatly appreciated and gives me insight on what you guys are thinking. Also, votes and subscriptions are awesome too.

I hope you enjoyed this first offering, and I hope to see you for the next installment.