The Lies He Spoke

TWENTY FIVE

Febreze is an American brand of air freshener spray that my family personally sprays in the bathroom. Also, Ted Bundy was a very creepy serial killer. These references will make more sense in a bit. 

[Warning: This is a sad chapter. Mentions of suicide and depression. Maybe if you are in a down mood, you should watch Schitts Creek instead. Highly recommend.]

Logan was usually a mess in the morning for several reasons.

These included the thirty things he needed to take to college every day as a commuter student that were always spread around the house.

There was also the fact that he had to make lunch and breakfast for both him and Olivia because she liked to sleep as late as possible and he found it easier to just make it himself rather than wake her up.

And then sometimes, it was through no problem of his own but because Blake often called him in the morning in a panic because Andy was asleep and without his roommate Blake didn't know which setting to broil croissants on or how to get the crumbs out from the bottom of the toaster when they were making the entire kitchen smell like burnt bread.

Currently, though, the issue was that he'd been standing in the bathroom for the past seven minutes, debating whether he was okay enough to open the drawer and take out his razors to shave.

Blake had FaceTimed him that morning and asked about the unkempt state of his chin and Logan had snapped at him to clean the pile of dishes he could see behind his brother. Now, however, he took another look at his face and realized that it was, indeed, getting very bad.

He hadn't had the courage to open the razor drawer in a few days, and his scruff was becoming less of a scruff and more of a diseased jungle.

Logan squeezed his hands so tight the lines on his arms grew white. Maybe it would be okay for a quick second. He could put the razor away if the urge started to get too uncontrollable.

Then he caught himself. This was exactly the kind of slippery slope Dr. Chandler always told him to turn himself away from.

He leaned his elbows down against the sink and groaned in frustration. This wasn't so hard for normal people. Normal people didn't think twice about getting rid of that five o'clock shadow and moving on with their lives.

He wanted to stop feeling like this. Every few months he'd think it was the end and every few months the horrible feelings would come back. He hated wanting to do this. He knew it was wrong to want to hurt himself but that wanting kept creeping up on him. That itching would build and build and he would want so badly to just do it.

But right now, all he needed was to maintain his sanity for thirty fucking seconds so he could-

"Logan!" Olivia yelled from outside the door. "Can you hurry up? I need to pee!"

Logan looked away from the sink and towards the door. "Can't you hold it in?" he snapped. "You have the bladder of an old man!"

"And you have the digestive issues of an old woman!" she hurled right back at him. "Hurry up and get out of there! And use the Febreze!"

"There is no need for Febreze!"

"If you don't use it, I will leave dog poop in your bed!"

Her stomping footsteps faded away.

Logan's breathing came a little faster. The anxiety of contemplating holding his razor was like an enormous black shroud, making it hard to see and feel and think. He put his hand on the drawer knob, then took it off, then held the knob again.