Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
In other words, the room has everything you would expect but never lived in. It's like when you stage your house before you sell it, and I guess that's exactly what it is. I bet until now, this place sat empty. Cared for, but probably full of whatever furniture was here before... Before what? I don't have the first clue, and I can't pretend I'm not interested in learning more, but I might as well bang my head against a wall because that’s what it’s like trying to get anything out of him.
The kitchen floor is cold beneath my bare feet, but I welcome the sensation once I cross the room and flip on the light under the range hood. I wonder how many meals Romero's mom cooked here, if she cooked at all. I wonder what she was like. What kind of woman raises a son who turns out like him? Clearly, some serious shit must have gone down for him to be the way he is: closed-off, able to bottle up his feelings, totally detached most of the time. I can count on one hand the number of times he's shown any actual, genuine emotion.
One of those times wasn't all that long ago. When I first woke up in the hospital with a raging headache, I found him sitting by my bed. He was leaning in, hardly breathing, when he asked if I could hear him. If I knew who he was. I remember the long, shuddering breath he released when I asked where I was and why he was in my face. There was a second when he seemed... real. Human. Then, like turning off a light, he went cold again, standing and leaving my room to find Dad and bring him to me.
Even then, Dad was happy to see me awake but distracted by his worry for Bianca and the baby. Even then, I couldn't take the top spot on his list of priorities.
I shake my head, hoping the movement will dislodge all the thoughts and make them disappear. Thinking about this shit isn't helping. I fling open the cabinet doors, scanning what's inside. I need something to calm me down, the way Sheryl's tea always does. What I wouldn't give for a pot of that fragrant chamomile she always has waiting for me.
Ugh. I could scream I’m so frustrated right now. There isn't a single tea bag in the kitchen. Not even the bland, basic crap on sale at any corner store. It's just tea. It shouldn't bother me so much. Yet all I can do is stand here staring into a cabinet that doesn't hold what I need while the pressure builds in my chest and behind my eyes.
Get it together. Don't be a baby.
I can't help it. This is the straw that broke the camel's back. All I want is a cup of tea so I can maybe calm down enough to get back to sleep. Silly, stupid bitch Tatum can't even have that. I couldn't mourn my mom when she died. I couldn't defend myself against Kristoff. I was never important enough for my dad to pay attention to me for more than a few minutes before returning to what mattered. And now, I can't make a single fucking cup of tea to soothe myself.
No. I will not do this. I will not stand here and weep like a scared child because I can't have a cup of tea. I’m not going to fall apart. This is the problem with remembering things. Eventually, all the pain returns, so much pain I don't know what to do with it. The sort of pain that wants to tear me to pieces, wants to shred me.
I can't handle it. It's going to kill me.
My breath comes fast and short, no matter how I try to calm myself down. I can no longer recall the breathing techniques or the ways to ground yourself. My heart pounds, loud and heavy. The sound deafens me, filling my head with the steady beat of a drum.
Stop, stop, this has to stop, but I don't know how to stop it. My teeth sink into my lip to hold back a hysterical cry threatening to rip through me while my gaze darts over the shadow-filled room. I need something, anything, to make it stop. I need it to go away. I need the pressure inside my head to disappear, the voices, the pain. I need to release it.
I don't know what draws my attention to the knife block on the counter. It makes me think of a girl I knew in high school who wore long sleeves even on hot days and always turned down invites to come over and swim. Eventually, one of the administrators caught on, and she ended up... somewhere. I feel bad now, thinking back on how disgusted I was when I heard she was cutting herself. Her best friend told me she did it because it made her anxiety and stress disappear for a while. I didn't understand that at the time. Why would anybody want to hurt themselves?