Amber

Chapter 22

Hailey

November 18, 2015

I think the rope is tied a little less tight around my ankles this time. Maybe I'm only imagining it. I've sort of perfected that. Imagining. Between talking to Hannah, thinking of home, and dreaming of all of the ways my life would be better if I wasn't here, I'd say I spend practically all of my day escaping reality. I can tell Lauren does the same. There are times when it's almost as if she's not even here at all. I'll try talking to her, and she'll ignore me. Sometimes the darkness plays tricks on me, and for a moment Lauren disappears like a shadow falling into the shade. That's my greatest fear—to be alone in here. But I would also be free. Free to let go. Free to die. Because then I wouldn't have anyone to stay strong for.

He shuffles forward with his usual difficulty, dragging the chair like always and patting his right knee once seated. Lauren crawls along the dusty floor until she reaches him, climbing up into his lap. He cuts her with short strokes across her arms. She's completely still the whole time. Then she hops down, and a pat of the left knee means it's my turn.

I obey in order to gain his trust. The rope is looser. I can feel it shifting around my ankles as I crawl. Once I'm in his lap, I close my eyes and wait for my body to tell me where he's going to cut this time. It's always a surprise. A little game he plays. He taps his foot while waiting to decide. That's how I know this is fun for him. He's a monster. A Goddamn disease. The creature that followed me around, biding his time, waiting to strike. Now he has me. He doesn't want to let go. Why would he? This is what he wants.

The back of my neck above my shirt collar. That's where the knife sinks its teeth into—all torturously slow and careful, like tracing an invisible line in my skin.

My neck. That's a new one.

Great. Good job. You fucking disease.

You fucking rock star.

You're doing it again. You're talking to him in your head. He won't answer you. Not that way.

He'll answer me if I make him. Once he slips up. Once he lets his guard down. Once he leaves my ankles untied. When the same knife he uses on us is pressed against his own neck. That's when he'll talk. That's when he'll beg.

"Why are you doing this, Lee?"

She's back again. This is unusual. She's never around for this part. She doesn't like to watch the cutting. I wonder why. Her of all people ...

"Stop this, Lee. Be strong."

She speaks as if I have a choice. As if this isn't all her fault.

The knife digs deeper now, crossing the other cut and ending on the other side of my neck up near my ear. I watch Hannah the whole time—eyes tearing and gritted teeth. "Where do you think he got the idea from?" I ask in a snarl.

Later on, once he leaves, I'm lying face down on the blankets while Lauren rubs my back. She always feels worse about my pain than her own. She acts like it doesn't hurt.

Hannah is sitting near me, leaning back, her head resting against the wall as if this is as much her prison as ours.

"Why did you do it? Why did you leave me?" I ask.

Lauren continues rubbing, somehow knowing the question isn't for her.

"I'm sorry, Lee. I'm so sorry."

"That doesn't mean anything. Why can't you tell me the truth? Why was I not good enough? Why were we not good enough? Why couldn't we have been enough?"

She doesn't answer. The longer she stays silent, the more I think she's going to leave again.

"It was a selfish thing to do," I remind her. "So selfish. So unlike you. You were never selfish, Hannah. That's why it was so difficult. I couldn't understand it." I look to her. "I still can't. Help me understand."

But she doesn't. She just cries. Always crying. As if all of her tears in life were hidden inside to pour out of her once dead. She can't help me understand because she doesn't understand it either.

"I'm so sorry, Lee."

Maybe it's not about understanding.