“You like to read?” She picks up on the one thing I actually consider my own.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d rather live inside of a book than live in real life.”
Dr. Hart’s nose crinkles, and she tilts her head. “May I ask you a very serious question? One that may be hard to answer, but I need an answer and hope I’ve earned an honest reply. You know I can’t help you unless you’re honest with me.”
My palms start to sweat, and I clench my teeth. She knows. I don’t know how she knows, but she does. I can see it in her black eyes. The depth to which she sees inside me is startling. I fidget in my seat and think about what her question could be and how I want to answer it. Again, I have to remind myself I’m here for a reason. She’s not going to lock me up in some insane asylum against my will. She may have the power to do so, but for some reason, I trust her. Trust her to guard my secrets.
“Ask me.” I swallow and wait.
Monet taps her pen against her legal pad and stares at me. Her eyes seem calculating, deducing the truth she’s seeking to confirm.
“Have you ever tried to harm yourself?”
My gut reaction is to lie.
No one is going to help you unless you help yourself. Hannon’s words from the first time he caught me cutting rush back to the surface, giving me strength. My head is a two-ton weight when I give an affirmative nod.
“How?”
With that simple request, there is no judgment, no accusation, just a simple question that deserves an honest answer. But can I tell her? The only person who knew was Hannon, and when he found out, I stopped. For a while. I didn’t need to hurt myself all the time. Sometimes but not all the time.
Tell her, Honor.
Hannon’s voice slams into my consciousness as if he’s right here, urging me, holding my hand while I war with the decision to bare all. Admitting my sins is one thing. Showing them is another.
“Honor, I’m not here to judge you. I’m your doctor. I’m here to help you deal with Hannon’s death and the sadness I see in your eyes every time you enter that door.” She points at the entrance to her office. “I’m here for you. Only you. You have the power to share as much or as little as you want. Though, I’m asking you to share with me. To trust in me. I’m not going to hurt you more than you already have been. I can promise you that.”
“Oh, I know you won’t.” The snide comment slips from my lips. “No one can hurt me as much as I hurt myself.”
Right then, something in me just cracks. The ooze of pity and my own self-loathing spill out as I unbutton my cardigan and pull it off my arms. Then I rest my hands palms up on top of my knees so she can see the henna covering my sins. Tremors wrack my frame as I sit there and wait for her to see through the intricate swirls, down to the disgusting evidence hidden beneath.
Dr. Hart stands up, places her legal pad on her chair, and sits next to me on the couch. She grips my hand. “May I?”
I nod, not capable of saying anything as she lifts my arm and pulls it into her lap. She runs the tips of her fingers over the art until she feels the raised areas of skin. She traces a finger from left to right along each line. About twelve or so on this arm, fewer on my right. Sometimes I just open an old one so I don’t have to hide another one.
“Why the henna?” Her voice is gentle, like a soft breeze on a sunny day. There is no judgment or harsh accusation. Nothing but solidarity, genuine concern, and something else I can’t decipher.
I wipe away the tears that have fallen unchecked down my cheeks. All I do is cry anymore. When am I going to stop crying?
Be still…find your peace.
My brother’s words weave through this revelation, and I close my eyes to find my voice. “The ink covers the sins.”
Dr. Hart pets my arm as she would a child. Lovingly. “I understand hiding scars. I’ve been in a situation in my past that I wasn’t proud of and felt the need to cover them. But some of these are new, Honor. Recent.” Her dark, questioning gaze meets mine.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Sometimes it gets too hard.”
“What does? What gets too hard?” She holds my hand, and I grip hers tightly, not wanting to let go. It’s as if she’s the only lifeline I have right now.
I close my eyes and let go. Let her in. “The nothing.”
“Explain what the nothing is so I can understand better.”
“I’m nothing. My life is nothing. Without Hannon, I have nothing.”
My first expectation was that Dr. Hart was going to contradict what I said. Alas, she’s smarter than the average doctor. I’ve been to therapy before. Well-intentioned counselors who supposedly had my best interests at heart. My mother hired a horde of them to come to the house and speak to me regularly because I never fit in. Never followed normal society rules or the mandated conduct of a blue blood Carmichael. I’ve been found lacking my entire life. The only person who ever made me feel special, made me feel anything, was my twin brother. And he destroyed that when he ended his life.
“Honor…why do you cut yourself?” Dr. Hart asks the million-dollar question. The one I wouldn’t even admit to Hannon when he asked all those years ago.
Why do I do what I do?
This is my last-ditch effort at finding the peace Hannon spoke of. I look up from my lap and trace one of the bigger cuts across my inner forearm.
