Chapter: 7

It’s curious how fickle the human heart can be. One minute, because of the slightest thing – a simple pleasure, the kind act of a friend, even a smile – man is on top of the universe, and he feels invincible. And then, just as easily, any of those slight things (or lack thereof) can take the legs out from beneath him and crush all of his hopes and dreams with one fell swoop.

The thing that took Christy Louches’ legs out from beneath her was not necessarily a minor issue, but then again it definitely wasn’t a life–changing tragedy either. Yet, she certainly made it into one, because sometimes even anger and sadness are better than apathy. For Christy, it was actually a chain of events that took place throughout the day, but the first of these happened at around 12:45 in the afternoon.

Her cell phone rang. Well, technically it buzzed its way across her desk, because it was on vibrate.

Christy sent the LG a look of apprehension. She was sprawled on her bed, head propped on one e, flipping absently through People. The fact that someone was calling was a definite perk to the otherwise mundane Saturday, December the 4th. May was out and there was nothing on TV, so talking to another living human being would definitely lift her spirits. The downside was that there were only seven people she knew of who currently had her cell number: Tracy, May, Fess, Jace, Principle Scadderffi, that quiet girl named Karen who had been Christy’s lab partner for BIO, and her single surviving grandmother.

And I only feel like speaking to two of those people. The odds are against me here.

She regarded the buzzing phone for another moment, considered just letting it go to voicemail, then swung her legs over the edge of the bed instead. When she read the name on the front screen, she thought that she should feel excited, or at least happier than she’d been all day. Instead, there was a sinking sensation in her chest – recognition of a failed expectation – and she found herself frowning instead of smiling.

“Thought you forgot my fucking number,” she muttered, using her thumb to flip open the phone.

“Christy!” Tracy was exclaiming a second later – before Christy had even raised the phone to her ear. She sounded delighted, as though surprised that Christy had even answered.

“Hi, Trace,” Christy said, forcing herself to sound at least somewhat cheerful.

Tracy laughed giddily, and Christy wondered what exactly she was doing. It must have been something extravagant to override her disgust at being stuck with her family for a month. “Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “It feels like I haven’t seen you in forever!”

You haven’t, Christy thought. But she said: “I know – you need to come home soon.”

“Aww, I know.” Trace was pouting – that was for sure. She certainly knew how to use that larger–than–average lower lip of hers to her own advantage. “It’s going to be a little bit longer, though. I’m sure you can make it on your own though, right? You’re a big girl.”

Christy gritted her teeth. It wasn’t anger burning in her chest. It was… something else. “Yeah, yeah.” She cleared her throat and brightened her voice forcibly. “So tell me what’s been going on. I can’t believe you sound so happy! If I may quote one of your last comments to me, ahem: ‘I would rather fucking die than go visit my grandparents’. Oh, and I distinctly remember something about Canadian boys being so fugly –”

“I know, I know – I’m a hypocrite.” She was laughing again, more than usual. Why the hell was she so giddy? “Funny you should bring that up, Chrissy, I… Well, I don’t know how to say this, but… Uhh, what do you think of long–distance relationships?”

Christy almost squealed with delight. She almost forgot her hurt and anger, almost demanded intimate details. But then she immediately thought of Fess and the long–distance relationship she shared with him. While theirs was anything but romantic, it was indicative of the pain both parties undergo simply because of the separation. In Christy’s instance, there was emotional baggage involved, and yet – in that moment where she hovered – something snapped inside of her, and all she could think about was how badly she ached to see her father.

“Trace… I, I don’t know,” she said weakly.

“Oh, come on, Christy,” Tracy said, and probably rolled her eyes. There was a slight change in the tone of her voice – as though she was irritated Christy hadn’t been more enthusiastic. “You’re just jealous.”

Damn right, Christy thought, sucking her lower lip into her mouth to keep it from trembling. “Trace, if it’s what you want.”

“I don’t know just yet,” she said, and that girlish excitement was back again. “I met him two days after we got here. He’s my grandparents’ next–door neighbor – he just moved in like four months ago. We just… clicked. And he’s so neat – he’s big into skiing, and he’s fluent in French, plus he’s got this cutest accent. Oh God, and he plays the fucking violin, Christy! Tell me he’s not something!”

“Sounds amazing,” Christy said miserably, wishing that she didn’t feel so jealous, because it compounded her issues of loneliness and made her miss Fess all the more. And the doubt was back too – doubt in her father, her mother, God, and herself.

Tracy’s voice took on concern faster than a sinking boat takes on water. “Chrissy, what’s wrong babe?”

At any other time, she might have poured her heart out right then and there. It would have been blissful relief to spill her heart and have a good cry over it, but there was a wall between the both of them suddenly – something that had been erected in the mere matter of weeks since Tracy had left. Whether or not it had anything to do with God and Christy’s new “friends” wasn’t immediately apparent. But Christy knew it had more to do with the fact that Tracy, her best friend in the world, had willingly neglected to call – just so she could spend more time with Pierre, this perfect little French boy, whom she was most likely already fucking.

Christy cleared her throat again and affected a fair imitation of her usual attitude. “Nothing, why?”

“Oh come on, girl – I know you. What is it?”

“Tracy, I’m fine.” She sighed and stood up, needing to do something to release the complex emotions combusting within her. “I’m just a little stressed out. Lopez isn’t letting up.”

It was the truth, although he’d given her no homework for the weekend. The relief was minor when compared to the rest of her life, yet it had been significant in a holiday season that was turning out to be not much of a holiday at all. It seemed trivial now.

Tracy sighed. “I’m sorry, Chrissy – I shouldn’t be talking about my vacation when you’re stuck there.”

Despite the fact that she was apologizing, the way she said it was irritating. After all, Christy didn’t need Tracy to point out just how “stuck” she was, and she didn’t need a shrink either. What she needed was a friend who was there for her.

“I’ll be fine,” she said shortly, allowing the anger she felt to bleed into the words. “Hope you have a great vacation, Trace.”

“Christy, I –” Tracy began, but Christy flipped the phone shut.

She stood there, grinding her teeth, knotting her hands into fists. She was angry, and she was hurt, and when the phone buzzed again, she almost threw it into the wall. The only thing that stopped her was the fact that it wasn’t Tracy calling back. Blankly, she looked down at the unknown number. Somehow it seemed vaguely familiar, but she didn’t recognize it.

Surprise was quick to wipe away the anger as she opened the phone again and raised it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Is that you Christy?” The tone was thick with false suspicion and the question was clearly rhetorical – as though the speaker had hands posted on his hips and was addressing a long–removed sorority buddy at their twenty–fifth reunion.

She felt her eyebrows rise. “Jace?”

“The one and only.” She could tell he was grinning broadly, obviously pleased with himself. “You make yourself a difficult woman to get in touch with.”

She dropped onto her bed heavily, trying to smile. “Aaaand why would that be?” Like she gave a damn at the moment.

“I’ll spare no details,” he replied, business–like. “By the way, Dylan’s here and you’re on speaker, so watch what you say. It will be used against you. Anyway, I’d hoped that your number would still be in my phone since you called me, but – alas – it was not. I have this OCD thing where I erase everything right away because old texts and calls irritate me. Anyway, I had to call the church to get your house phone, and then when I called that and got your answering machine, I was able to get your mom’s cell phone (good idea to have that in the message), which I then called in turn and got your personal cell number from her. Lovely lady, your mother, by the way.”

Christy snorted, both amused and disbelieving. “My mom?”

“Oh come now,” Dylan said, somewhere in the background. “Everyone thinks their mom is the worst.”

“True,” Jace agreed sagely.

“So I assume there’s a good reason you’re calling,” Christy said pointedly, working her fingers back through her hair. The frustration she felt for Tracy was lingering, but she was trying not to hold on to it. Distraction was a wonderful thing: Jace had timed his call perfectly, as though he’d been keeping an eye on her with hidden cameras or that God–given ESP of his.

“Well–spotted,” he praised. “You see, Dylan and I were thinking –”

“That’s a plus for us,” Dylan put in.

“– that since it’s Saturday, and we already had plans for hanging out anyway, we figured that we should invite you over. I know, I know – we’ve only known you for about three weeks or so now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t take our friendship to the next level. Oh, and Kandy’s probably going to come too, so you don’t have to feel like the third wheel.”

“You and I are dating?” Dylan asked incredulously.

“In a manly non–gay sort of way,” Jace clarified.

“Ah,” Dylan said. “Just checking.”

Christy glanced at the clock on her wall. May was out running errands, and wouldn’t be home for another half hour or so. She had insisted that she only needed to get a few groceries, but Christy was fairly certain that at least some of the stops she was making were Christmas–related.

“Well,” she said hesitantly, “I have no ride at the moment.”

It was the truth, although she already knew Jace would offer to pick her up. The fact of the matter was that she was leery of accepting the invitation. She and Jace had decidedly become closer after their early–morning conversation and the last youth group outing, yet there was reluctance on her part to get any closer to him. After all, the people with whom you’re closest are the ones who hurt you the worst.

If Tracy and Daddy are any examples to measure by.

“I can pick you up,” Jace said predictably. “If your mom’s okay with that.”

Christy rolled her eyes. “You kidding? She’ll be so thrilled that I’m –” She would have said “hanging out with Christians”, but then remembered that Dylan was listening. Explaining – or not – would be too awkward.

“…getting out of the house,” she concluded a heartbeat later. “I should call her, though.”

“Fair enough,” Jace said. “Give me a call back at this number when you know what’s going on. I’ll need to know what time to come.”

“And directions,” Christy threw in, smiling wearily.

“Actually, no.” He cleared his throat, and she could hear him grinning again. “I took the liberty of asking the church secretary your house address. Considering my close proximity to Millsboro, I know exactly where you live. Creepy, no?”

“Horrifying,” Christy amended dryly. She didn’t really give a shit. “I’ll call you back.”

“Tarry not. Dylan’s about to run out and get coffee for us –”

In the background: “I am?”

“– and we all know there’s nothing worse than cold coffee.”

It was amazing the ability those two had to lift her spirits. That certainly didn’t mean she felt one hundred percent better, but Christy couldn’t help but smile as she shut the phone on Jace and Dylan’s parting comments and then opened it again to call May. They had a knack for cheering her up by their stupidity alone, and now that she had overcome her gag reflex, she found that their corny jokes were a medicine in and of themselves.

Of course, getting over her best friend’s betrayal would take more than foolish antics.

As Christy had predicted, May was perfectly okay with the arrangements, only admonishing her daughter to call when she was ready to come home and to wear her seatbelt. It was odd that she made no mention of Jace being a boy, because any time Christy had kept male company in the past, May had teased as well as lectured. Christy wasn’t into Jace that way of course, but such an excuse wouldn’t have dissuaded May’s logic that any guy could make indecent advances.

Apparently he’s an angel ’cause he’s a Christian.

This time, she saved his number – so that in the future she could decide whether or not she wanted to immediately discuss the invasion of her privacy or listen to a message about it later.

Jace pulled up to the curb in front of her house less than fifteen minutes later. He escorted her to his little white Tercel in gentlemanly fashion and even opened the door for her to climb in. When he pulled out of the cul–de–sac moments later, they were still laughing because Christy had called him Jeeves.

It was weird that she felt so nervous being with him, and yet talking was so effortless. Before he had arrived, she had quickly changed into something more presentable than sweat pants and a t-shirt, run a brush through her hair, and even popped a handful of Tic–Tacs into her mouth.

She almost felt embarrassed thinking about it. I don’t like him, she thought angrily, looking hard out the frost–streaked window. And it’s not a fucking date.

“You good?” Jace asked suddenly as they sped towards the stoplight – considerably faster than May would have gone.

Christy sent him a sideways look, mildly surprised by the question. “Sure,” she replied, trying to act casual.

He smiled, not looking at her, adjusting his Devils cap to a jaunty angle. “Okay.”

“Why do you automatically assume something’s wrong?” Christy asked indignantly, but she couldn’t keep the smile from her face.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he said, waggling a finger at her and simultaneously rolling the wheel to pass an SUV which was making a left into the gas station. “I asked how you were. I asked nothing to insinuate that I thought something was wrong. However, now I know there’s something wrong, because you brought it up.”

For a moment, Christy stared at him incredulously. And then she snorted. “No, I’m fine.” The lie was hard to get out. She shook her head, wanting to spill it all, and at the same time screaming inside because she simply couldn’t.

“Okay,” he said again before she could work herself up. The casual submission was also surprising: she had expected him to probe.

But before she could say anything by way of reply, Jace was indicating the CD player. “As co–pilot, you are in control of the radio today,” he said. “I think I left Rage Against the Machine in there, but you can put on whatever you’d like. Got mainly indie stuff in the back. Not sure if you like angry protest music or not –”

Christy was already shouting along with De la Rocha to Bombtrack before Jace could even finish.

The drive was short, and they had barely gotten through three songs before they were pulling into a quaint little development. The street was lined by pines, all the way down as far as Christy could see, and Jace’s house was the second one on the left. It was a two–story home with a considerable front lawn and the kind of wooden shutters that would make May squeal and voice her love of old houses. Jace’s house wasn’t necessarily “old”, but his family – or the previous owners – had gone out of their way to make it look more antiquated than it was.

Jace pulled up beside a battered Intrepid, and grinned at Christy over the roof of his car as they got out. “Don’t scratch Dylan’s car. As you can tell, he’s very particular.”

“I’ll try not to,” she replied, shivering as she followed him up the walk. “So I’m curious how a Christian such as yourself takes no offense to explicit lyrics. Rage isn’t exactly ‘clean’.”

He rolled his eyes as they mounted the steps to the porch. “Trust me, I get a lot of flak for it. To be honest, I guess it’s not the best idea to fill my head with that all the time, but I approach listening to music the same way I approach writing it: each artist’s got a message to convey, and so long as their music’s good, I’m willing to listen.”

Christy nodded mutely, considering the philosophy. It didn’t strike her as a cop–out, but there was something hypocritical about it just the same.

“’Sides, Tom Morello’s somewhat of an idol of mine.” He opened the door for her and bowed low, affecting a British accent. “After you, Madame.”

Christy smacked his arm and stepped inside.

It was a relief to get out of the cold, although entering foreign territory was equally uncomfortable in a different sense of the word. They had entered into the sitting room with the kitchen on the immediate right. Straight ahead, a short hall led to a cluttered office of sorts, and steps at the end led to the bedrooms upstairs.

“Hey,” Dylan’s voice said jovially, drawing Christy’s attention to the kitchen. He was sitting on a barstool at the island in the middle, nursing a 20 oz. Wawa cappuccino and wearing a camouflage t-shirt that said “now you can’t see me”. Grinning, he indicated the three other cups sitting beside him. “I bear gifts.”

Jace took off his coat and offered to take Christy’s. “You didn’t get that low–fat crap, did you?” he asked.

Dylan raised his cup in an ambiguous salute and said nothing.

“He likes to work out, ’cause it makes him feel better about himself,” Jace explained, tossing Christy’s coat over his shoulder. “Apparently low–fat cappuccino is good for the exercise routine.”

“Not good – better,” Dylan intoned.

Jace kicked off his shoes, then walked briskly towards the short hall, leading to the office. “I’m gonna hang up the coats,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared. “Make yourself at home. Take some coffee, have a seat.”

“Okay,” Christy replied, then – at Dylan’s beckoning – entered the kitchen and hopped up on a second stool, which he indicated.

“Hey,” he said, grinning foolishly.

“Hey,” she replied, trying not to copy the silly smile.

“Coffee drinker?” he asked pleasantly.

She glanced at the large paper cups. “Not really.”

Dylan threw his hands in the air in mock exasperation. “Two bucks down the drain. No, seriously, you’ll like it – it’s like a freaking candy bar in a cup. I loaded them with creamer and sugar.”

“So much for low fat,” Christy said as Jace swept back into the room and grabbed up one of the cups for himself. “Thought you wanted to go healthy, Richard.”

“Touché, Louches,” Dylan said, bowing his head in respect, as though conceding defeat. “I’ll give you the Simmons joke. However, I did feel guilty over catering to the sweet tooth you and Jace both share, so I got soy creamer instead of regular to make up for it.”

Jace – who had just taken a tentative sip – choked.

“Kidding,” Dylan said mildly, winking.

It was no surprise that Christy found herself jealous of Jace’s family after meeting them. By the same token, she’d always been envious of Tracy’s family as well, yet it had always brought her a small measure of comfort that the Casners were far from perfect. Tracy’s parents had a bad habit of fighting in front of company – especially over the little things – and their daughter tended to be a bit of a brat herself, being an only child. Yet, despite those flaws, they were still together, and they were family. Despite their fights, they still loved each other. At least, they said they did.

By contrast, Jace’s family couldn’t have been more different. For one thing, Mr. and Mrs. Harper were still close and romantic despite being married for twenty-five years. They were also considerably friendly to Christy, despite the fact that they’d never met her before. She could immediately tell that Dylan had a second mother in Mrs. Harper, who doted on him purposely.

Jace was the younger of two boys, Christy learned: his older brother Luke lived and worked in D.C. – in particular, at the White House itself. It was a point of pride for Jace’s father, who was politically minded and obviously prided himself on the fact that one of his boys worked to protect the President on a daily basis.

As she sat in the sitting room an hour or more later, chatting amiably with her new friends, Christy found herself distracted by the storm still brooding within her chest. It wasn’t just the jealousy thing, although that had a lot to do with it. Meeting Jace’s family did make her think about how awful hers was, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Fess was still “pulling strings” in hopes of coming home for the holiday, or whether he was already cooking up his newest batch of excuses.

That’s not fair, she told herself, miserably swirling around the coffee in her cup. You’re just being stupid. Take it easy – you can cry when you go home.

She looked up, blinking to clear her vision and her thoughts.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Harper was making some sort of stew that was making Jace wrinkle his nose in disgust. Mr. Harper was sitting at the island, reading the paper aloud to his wife and drinking the coffee Dylan had brought him.

“Black and strong – just the way he likes it,” Jace had said, just before shooting his best friend a dirty look. “Brownnose.”

“You’re just jealous,” Dylan had replied, “because they love me more than you.”

Kandy had found that particular statement hilarious. She had arrived less than ten minutes after Christy and Jace, bringing with her a plate of homemade cookies and a story concerning a “near–death experience”, which had apparently just happened on her way to Jace’s house. Relating the tale had been a tremendous ordeal, involving lots of laughter and loud talking. She was currently sitting next to Christy on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest. The girl really had a joyful persona. She rarely spoke without smiling, even when she was serious, and had a knack for infallible optimism. Of course, being such close friends with Jace – who was constantly putting himself down – required an awful lot of that patient, easy nature.

Christy tried to smile as the other three laughed over a joke she had missed, but managed little more than a grimace. It was hard to be positive, even in the presence of these Christians, when she felt so inadequate, not to mention miserable over the fact that she was now short one father and one best friend. And thinking those thoughts only made it harder to keep a plastic smile in place.

Jace caught her gaze suddenly from across the room, and something in his smile slackened. For a moment, she thought he was going to ask what was wrong. His mouth did open, but he shut it just as quickly, clamping down on whatever question had almost leapt from his lips.

Not for the first time was she surprised by his intuition.

The raging pessimist within her scoffed. What does it really matter?

Dylan raised his cappuccino in salute, oblivious to the silent exchange. “I hear that, brother.” Whatever he had “heard” was a mystery to Christy: she had zoned out entirely for the past few minutes of the conversation.

“Well I’m never eating at that Taco Bell again,” Kandy said, and that was somehow relevant to the conversation also.

“Whatever,” Jace shot, grinning at Dylan. “We all know you’re nuts for tacos, Kandy.”

“I’m nuts for Italian food,” Dylan murmured distractedly, rubbing his stomach. “I could go for some ziti right now.”

“Olive Garden’s got that new rigatoni,” Jace said, raising his eyebrows up and down rapidly. “With sausage and whatnot.”

“Stop!” Dylan whined, letting his head roll back in agony. “That’s not helping.”

“Olive Garden has those great breadsticks,” Kandy said innocently, studying her nails.

“Christy, make them stop!” Dylan said loudly.

Christy smiled shallowly, thankful she knew what they were talking about so she could respond inconspicuously. “I’ve always been a fan of the alfredo.”

“The veal is to die for,” Mr. Harper called suddenly from the kitchen.

While Kandy and Jace howled with laughter, Dylan glared. “I thought we were friends,” he shouted towards the kitchen, crossing his arms. “I bought you coffee!”

Christy snorted a laugh with humor she didn’t feel, and then jumped as the cell phone in her pocket chimed a text message. For a moment, she thought it had been someone else’s, but then it beeped against her thigh again, leaving her no doubt.

“Who’s this?” she muttered, digging the phone out of her jeans.

“Someone loves you,” Kandy said, smiling at her.

The innocent comment drove a pang through Christy’s heart, but she ignored it as she flipped open the phone. There might have been a moment where she considered just letting the message go and viewing it later. In retrospect, doing so would have forestalled a world of pain and suffering, perhaps prevented it altogether. In fact, had she ignored the message and instead continued in the conversation, she might have forgotten all about it and either never read it, or come across it months later when it would have held little to no relevance anymore.

The message was from Tracy, and there was no surprise there. After all, Christy had hung up on her and practically accused her of neglecting a friend’s responsibility to be a friend. The confrontation would have taken place sooner or later. She hadn’t written a long text, but with 13 little words, Tracy Casner was able to get to the root of the problem in one merciless cut. And in so doing, she nearly broke Christy’s heart forever.

The message read: Just because you hate yourself doesn’t mean you have to hate me too.

Jace’s living room seemed to tighten, like it was collapsing in on itself.

As she closed the phone and numbly replaced it in her pocket, Christy heard the three friends still talking, but indistinctly and far away. And that was where they would remain: far away, because they could not understand. There comes a point, after all, where you can be surrounded by people – people who care a lot about you – and yet you’re still alone.

And with Tracy’s frank, cruel, true assessment of the situation boring into her brain, Christy Louches had never felt more alone in her life. Sure, she had felt lonely without Fess and rejected by him. Sure she had always been jealous of everyone around her. Sure, she had never really been happy with herself or her life. Sure she had always wished that May loved her more than she loved Jesus. Sure, Christy had always said that she hated herself…

But hearing it come from somebody else was like a slap of painful reality, and it hurt because it was so true.

I really hate myself.

The fire in her heart flared, and Christy stood abruptly, almost making the others jump. “Bathroom,” she blurted at them, putting her clammy hands in her pockets because they were trembling. She felt hot all over – embarrassed, but mostly just empty.

Jace pointed past the kitchen. “Third door down the hall,” he said, and while his tone was casual, his eyes had not lost that searching look.

Christy avoided his gaze, fighting hot tears as she stepped over Kandy’s legs in the direction Jace had indicated.

“Holler if you have a problem,” Dylan advised as she left the room.

It was like her face had stopped working: she couldn’t smile, she couldn’t laugh, she couldn’t even acknowledge the tease. But then again, her heart had stopped working too, hadn’t it? That was why she couldn’t feel anything, right?

Or anyone. Just the pain. And the hate.

She tried to smile as she passed Mrs. Harper on the way, but thankfully the older woman turned away at the moment Christy passed the stove, thus saving her the trouble.

The bathroom was easy enough to find. The third door on the right stood partially ajar, and she smelled lilac as she closed the door behind her and stumbled over to the toilet. She didn’t remember falling, didn’t notice the pain in her knees until seconds later. All she knew then was the impeccably clean porcelain pressed against her face, smearing quickly with snot and tears.

Tracy was right, because she always had been, and she was better off in Canada with Pierre the wonder boy. Fess wasn’t coming home: he never had before, so why should he make an effort now? May was just a pious bitch, obsessed with a God who didn’t care. God had not heard her prayer, because he didn’t want to. She wasn’t good enough, and she never would be. And these new friends of hers? Not even Jace could understand – none of them could even begin to try. They were just plastic people full of false intentions.

So then what else was left? What was real?

Christy wrapped her arms around the emotionless bowl of the toilet, lacking the strength to push herself upright, lacking the ability to breathe – or the desire. But her sobs – powerful though they were – remained mercifully silent. No one would know, and no one would come running. Not that they would have anyway.

In a rage, she found herself on her feet, smearing viscous fluid across her face with a sleeve.

Fuck them, she thought, clenching her teeth hard enough to make enamel squeal. Fuck them and their religion, and fuck you, God.

But the anger – instead of filling her with self–righteous strength as it usually did only left her ragged and empty, as worthless as before. Unloved, for all intents and purposes. Abandoned. Hating herself. Life sucked, and how the hell could it ever get any better? Or, for that matter, worse? She hurt all over, but most of it was in her chest. There was a fire growing there – burning and consuming what was left of her ability to feel. There was no innocence left, there was no strength. There wasn’t even denial.

Nothing. She’d never felt nothing before, and it was far, far worse than loss or anger. It was awful.

There was a medicine cabinet over the sink, concealed with a spotless mirror. Christy caught a glimpse of her puffy face and eyes for a bare fraction of a second, and then she was spilling bottles and pills to the linoleum, looking for something – anything. Anti–depressants, Nyquil, something.

“Fuck,” she hissed. There was nothing but Tylenol and Advil, drugs that wouldn’t help. They weren’t what she was looking for: they simply lacked the kick she wanted, that happy–as–sin high.

Her hands were shaking worse than ever. She couldn’t even read the labels because she couldn’t keep the bottles still. She sobbed in helpless frustration, hurling away a small bottle of Ibuprofen and leaning heavily on the sink, breathing hard.

That was it. The final straw. It was time. This had gone too far.

Her head came up slowly, and she sought her own gaze in the half – open mirror. Her broken eyes were too much to bear: it hurt to even look.

She reached into the cabinet again – for something she knew would be there. Her hand closed around the shaft of the disposable razor – the one Jace’s mother probably used for her legs. The plastic snapped easy because her hands had stopped shaking.

Christy caught one last glimpse of herself in that visible sliver of mirror – the last look she ever wanted to take. She never wanted to see that horrid face again.

Now or never.

Now.

Christy barely noticed that she was bleeding already: the thin blade she’d snapped off had cleanly slit her index and middle fingers. But that was okay – after all, she wasn’t really concerned about infections, and that just meant that the blade was sharp. There was no hesitation, no deep breath of fear and anticipation. No last words, no new tears, no final prayer. The steel slid smoothly beneath her flesh – like it belonged there. Like cutting air, like a hot knife through butter.

And the relief…

The blissful numbness, the tingle all over her body as hot scarlet flooded down her arm like a lava flow. Was this how Gara had felt in that lonely bathroom of Millsboro High? Hovering between life and death and pushing herself over?

Guess I’ll find out.

With the growing tide ebbed Christy’s strength: it took every last ounce of it to finish the job. The second wrist proved much harder to sever, and she did it sloppily. But there was no pain – only release, only blood, and then she was floating.

The bathroom lost focus.

Darkness crept into the corners of her vision. The blood pounded in her ears – as loud as her heart, as loud as those last few gasping breaths. And there: hovering uncertainly, a doubt – a figment of fear – slicing through that euphoric curtain, prodding her heart with an icy finger. She slid to the floor as blood continued to flow, unable to remain upright. The tiny bathroom continued to spin – lazily, nauseating.

A doubt, a fear.

And the bathroom door opening.

Christy looked up, and for a moment couldn’t tell whether the entrée was Jesus or an angel, perhaps welcoming her or – more likely – casting her out. And then she saw the baseball cap and the look of abstract horror –

Jace was shouting something as he crashed to his knees beside her in the thick pond her blood had created on the linoleum. His strong arms around her, he was lifting her up, slipping but prevailing, screaming for help.

She couldn’t hear him. She didn’t want to.

The room spun. And they were moving – he was carrying her, fueled by adrenaline, using a strength leant him by necessity. The hallway was sliding by, and as Christy’s head lolled back, she saw the trail of red ribbons on the beige carpet behind them, too much blood – too much –

The kitchen flashed by.

The living room: Dylan upending the remnants of his coffee as he leapt to his feet, and Kandy had her cell phone out, calling 911 most likely, and then Mrs. Harper screaming as she reentered the kitchen and saw all the blood –

Christy blinked, saw nothing but the ceiling, felt nothing but Jace’s arms around her as her head left her body, floating away on that wave of bliss. A doubt, a fear: a rock in the peaceful current. Terror, then peace, then horror, then regret.

The room spun. The breath in her ears. The shouts all around her.

And then nothing.

Absolutely nothing.