Permanent Scars

It Doesn't End Happy

Adam's POV

December 7, Saturday. 6:15 p.m.

I'm just letting myself into the apartment when my ears are met with the sound of a smashing mirror. Or a mirror smashing? Either way, it doesn't matter I guess; all I know is that I heard something glasslike breaking and Serenity's voice screaming in a freakishly high soprano, "She's stupid! She's stupid stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid!! IhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyou. YOU. I...HATE...HER. YOU."

She's been here before. I've heard it, I've seen it. This isn't good. With my gut wrenched in an incomprehensible twist, I practically fly through the living room and hallway, locating the coordinates of the sounds. Her bedroom. She's in her bedroom.

I wrench the door open and stumble in, just in time to grab her away from a million shards of glass scattered across her bed and the carpet. Screaming like the insane girl that she is, she kicks wildly, crying out intense hatred for this you and her she keeps hollering about. It's all I can do to grip the fighting girl tightly and carry her to the bathroom. I set her in the tub, desperately trying to remove all pieces of glass from her clothes and skin, the pieces in her hair, the ones clutched in her hands. She screams in the most horrible, bloodcurdling way. It's almost deafening, and I have no choice but to yell at her. I mean really.

"No, don't do that to yourself! Hey! You have to snap out of it! Make yourself stop! Tell yourself NO! I can't let you do this!"

She fights until eventually—and to my relief—she breaks.

This is common. Her fits always end like this. Shards of glass litter the bathtub, along with crimson smears of her blood.

What a pretty story to tell my parents if they see it.

But I made a promise to her that I'd never tell. I'm going to live up to it. I'm gonna clean her up and the apartment. They'll never know.

They kindly let her live here after her house burned down. They can't know.

"Don't tell," she sobs, bloody hands drawn to her face. "Oh, I hate her. Adam, don't tell."

"Who do you hate?" I know I should promise her that I won't tell, but my curiosity is hungry today.

"The girl in the mirror."

"You hate the girl in the mirror."

"Yes. I hate her. She hates me. Everyone hates me. I hate me."

"I don't hate you. That means not everyone."

"You do hate me. You're just being nice because it makes you look good."

I pray for guidance and the right words, then shake my head sadly, lifting her out of the tub. Or trying to, anyway. She doesn't want to budge.

"Adam. Enough is enough. We all know I'm insane. Nobody loves me, and I'm going to die, and it doesn't matter, and nothing matters, and everything is so worthless, and I'm worthless, and don't argue with me because I KNOW IT'S TRUE AND EVERYONE THINKS THEY CAN JUST LIE THAT IT'LL BE OKAY!!"

"Ssh, don't talk like that. C'mon, Aminal. You're so much more than you think. I know it's all coming down hard on you. I don't blame you for going to the extents you have. But listen to me."

I lift her bloody chin with my sanguinary finger and look into her dark, pained, teary sapphire eyes.

"There's a better way. There's hope for you. Every day I see you getting better, even when you feel like you've scaled back by a million measures."