You’re actually trying to find a way to let the pain out. Try it. You’ll see. It hurts more when you don’t do it.”
That first time had been the hardest. Tessa wasn’t even sure she’d be able to go through with it. Even now she could remember how nervous she was touching the cold steel to her skin, trembling a little, wondering if it would really help, if anything could really help-and then at last pressing the blade hard enough to draw blood and how it hurt more than she thought it would and how her leg twitched and she ended up dropping the knife, just barely missing her foot.
But somehow it did help. Yes. Somehow seeing that small streak of blood made the way she felt inside seem less out of control, less desperate, less awkwardly, gnawingly painful. Even if she couldn’t make her mom feel better, even if she couldn’t talk to Patrick, at least she could do something. At least she could do this.
Of course, it got worse after Mom died. That’s when she moved from her leg to her arm. Everything spun out of control then. Really bad for a while. But Tessa knew she was just doing it to cope. She could stop anytime she wanted to. She knew that much.
So now that she was alone again and her grandparents were asleep in the other room and she had that terrible roaring pain rising in her heart, Tessa fingered the blade and looked at the scars riding up her arm.
She saw her reflection, distorted and angular on the side of the razor blade.
Her heart was racing just like it always did.
How else were you supposed to deal with all this loneliness, this brokenness, this pain that you couldn’t put your finger on or hold back or control? You stuff it down, hoping it’ll all go away, but it doesn’t. It just gets bigger and uglier.
Cutting.
Like burrowing out of your own private little prison one slice at a time. But in this case the prison is you.
It was almost like crying or screaming but without all the tears and noise. That was the best way she could describe it, really. What was that phrase Cherise had used? Oh yeah. Crimson tears.
Crying your way out of prison, scar by scar.
When life spun out of control, you had to do something about it. Something. Even if it hurt for a little while. Even if it left scars.
Tessa pressed the razor blade against her skin and pulled.
23
Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid had barely laid his head on the pillow before the dream came. It was the same dream. The one he always had. The one that climbed out of the nightmares of his past and became the backdrop of life for him even when he was awake.
That’s how some dreams are. Whether you’re awake or asleep they just won’t let you go. They grow thick roots, threading their way through your hopes and desires, your past and your pain, your future and your days, becoming a deep and certain part of you. And even though he’d been dreaming the dream for nearly thirty years, the images hadn’t become foggy or clouded by time, just clearer and somehow more distinct. Sharper and more focused than ever.
He was ten when it happened.
The crack of gunshots rang in the air, echoing through the muddy compound before being swallowed by the nearby jungle. Following each blast came a burst of squawks and squeals erupting from the canopy of branches high overhead.
The boy ran with the sound of gunshots all around him. Ran. Trying to forget what he’d seen, what no one should ever see.
Ran. Ran. Ran.
So that’s how the dream started-with the gunshots by the jungle. He was out of breath. He heard the loud, loud guns. But those were nothing compared to the shrieks of the children. Mostly it was the younger children screaming. The little ones. The babies. Their cries intermingled with the slow music playing over the sound system; the humming, throbbing music almost like a death march, almost like a church service gone horribly wrong. Some of the people sang along, others were hugging and comforting each other. A few of the mothers cried. But it was the babies he remembered the most. The sound of the little ones crying in the dusk.
He ran, and the shrieks chased after him as he clambered over the fence and hit the ground running on the other side. Behind him, the two guards were yelling for him to stop. That everything was going to be okay! That he should just come back and join the others! That things would be better now! If he would just stop running!
But he didn’t stop. He ran like he’d never run before, eyes frozen in terror, down the road and toward the jungle where he could hide. Like an animal he ran. The trees loomed high above him now. He’d reached the edge of the world. He dove into the shadows, a thousand shades of green flashing past his face. Even the sting of branches lashing against his face didn’t slow him down.
The branch next to his left ear exploded.
In his dream, Aaron could almost feel the spray of splinters bite into his neck and face, just like they had in the jungle so many years ago. But he didn’t stop running. The crack of another gunshot cut through the dusk. Shrieks. Music. Babies. The river.
Just a little farther. Make it to the river.
He was almost out of reach now. Almost to safety. Just a little farther and everything will be okay.
Whatever you do, don’t stop running.
The boy hadn’t been there when it started. Instead he was off playing by himself as he often did, by one of the many rivers that threaded through the jungle surrounding the compound. He liked watching the waves ripple along, easing toward some distant village-toward the roaming sea out of sight somewhere. He would dream of all the places the river might flow, all the shores the ocean might touch. Faraway, exotic lands. Lands he could only visit in his imagination. Because once you came to this town in the jungle, you never left. Everyone knew that. Everyone said so. It became your home forever.
Even though no one was supposed to leave the compound, his parents didn’t seem to mind his treks into the jungle. They let him explore down by the river because they loved him. And because he wasn’t like the other children. He was different. Special. Destined for great things. He knew it was true. They’d told him so. He would follow in Father’s footsteps one day.
Even Father said so.
So they’d let him go to the river earlier in the day when the rumors started.
Everything was so tense, everyone so anxious. Whispering. Shaking their heads and then looking around to see if anyone was watching. And usually someone was. Someone was always watching. Or listening. Things would be different now that the congressman had visited, everyone knew that. The government was coming. It was just a matter of time.
So he’d gone off to be alone for a while. But then the music started and the screams started and that’s what brought him back.
It was already happening when he arrived at the pavilion. There were so many people lying in still rows on the floor that at first he thought maybe they’d been ordered to take a nap, and dutifully, unquestionably, they’d obeyed, positioning themselves on the ground.
To go to sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
Then he saw his baby brother and his parents on the ground. But they weren’t sleeping. They weren’t moving.
He watched for a while, trying to figure out what was going on, why the ones who lay down didn’t get up again. Some people lay down quietly and hardly moved again, others shook in ways that frightened him before they stopped moving for good. But none of the ones who drank the medication or accepted the needle got up again.
None of them. Ever again.
Run.
Keep running.
Have to keep running.
He jumped over a log on the edge of the jungle, and a bullet caught him in the left shoulder, sending him
