Page 61 of Freeing Emily
“Good. Now, come on. I need you to come check out the Manhattan warehouse with me.”
He slaps my back as he strides toward the passenger door.
I once again, climb back into the SUV and back out of the driveway.
I knock back a handful of pills and chug the glass of water that was set on my nightstand. I stumble toward the window and look over the ground of the estate. The moonlight lights the grounds in a soft glow.
The Ambien has been working wonders for my sleep. I don’t dream. I don’t have the voices dancing in my head throughout the entire night.
It’s an escape.
Something that I hope never leaves.
I’ve been emailing with Dr. Morrison over the last three days, and she recommended I start writing in a journal again.
She wants me to write something good that happened each day.
There isn’t anything I can find good.
I’m breathing and I don’t want to be.
It’s a struggle every day to find something – anything - to make me feel something other than this cloud of agonizing emptiness that surrounds me.
I had spoken with my ma earlier today and she apologized profusely about not knowing I was missing. She explained that she was in communication with what she had assumed to be me. My social medias had been hacked and apparently there were regular postings of me modeling in photos and various cities I had supposedly visited.
Hearing the depth Vladimir’s men had gone to hide my disappearance was daunting.
I don’t fault my mother for not noticing our interactions were fabricated. She’s grieving the death of my father. I wouldn’t have expected her to be able to see the deception when her heart and mind were clouded by that substantial loss.
After telling my ma about the betrayal of Ronan and Lorcan, she and my uncle Cormac hunted them down and executed them before they were able to escape Ireland.
Good riddance.
My body begins to relax as the medication flows through my bloodstream. I walk on wobbling legs to the ensuite and strip my tank and shorts. I stare at myself in the mirror and cringe at the sight.
The blackness that circles my eyes has set up a permanent residence on my face. My eyes are glazed over due to the medication.
I reach over and dig through the top drawer of the vanity until I find what I need. I take the razor apart, leaving just the blade in my palm.
The metal shines with the promise of peace. The promise of continued silence in my mind.
I look at myself in the mirror once more and bring the sharp edge up to my hip. I wince when the blade begins gliding through my flesh. The warm blood pools before sliding down my body.
With one cut made, I line the blade along my skin and make another parallel to the first.
My forefinger groans in protest as the blunt side of the razor cuts into it. I welcome the additional pain with open arms.
Anything to help make mefeel. Anything to silence the voices. Anything to distract me from the reality of my life. Of the reality that I survived something I shouldn’t have.
The blade clinks to the floor with I release it from my grasp. Bringing my fingers up to my hip, I smear my blood across the canvas of my flesh.
I bring my bloodied hand up and as I look into the mirror, I swipe it across my reflection.
Releasing a deep breath, I step into the shower and turn it on. The cold water shocks my system before heating up and warming my skin. The cuts in my hip sting as the water flows over them.
As the medication takes full effect, I struggle to stand, and the world begins to twirl on its axis. I use my hand to stabilize myself before sliding down the wall and onto the floor.
The cold tile is a stark contrast to the heat of the water.