Exposure • h.s.

CHAPTER17.

I had desperately tried to cover up with shaky hands the wound from which Harry's blood started gushing out.

His words reverberate in my head like music in an empty and endless drum. In my life, I've always (questionably) measured my worth based on academic and professional achievements that I would tirelessly pursue and eventually accomplish. Each success would become a mark on the thermometer of my self-worth.

Until recently, my existence followed a simple logic, mathematically brutal.

If I want to matter in life, I have to be successful.

To be successful, I need to excel at my work.

So,

If I can excel at my work, then I can matter in life.

As simple as that.

But my rigid syllogism, which had never let me down until a couple of years ago, started to waver and crumble whenever my pride was hurt by rejection or job failures. It made me realize that there was something flawed in that arbitrary way of assessing myself.

I wonder if Harry plays a role in making me realize that.
I almost feel as if he were my nemesis—a mirror I'm destined to face when I'm too thirsty for success, punishing my self-centeredness just by being there, speaking to me, reminding me that he exists.

Hot, bright red color now stains my palms, dripping down my forearms. I can't handle it: the sight turns my stomach upside down, making me feel nauseous. My blood pressure drops, a cold shiver runs up my spine as my energy slowly drains away, and the warmth of my body gives way to the icy sensation of fainting.

I can't let Harry see me like this. Or anyone, really.

Feeling weak and powerless, I decide to head towards the elevator. My mind goes blank, and little colored dots start buzzing before my eyes, blurring my vision. I wish I wasn't so sensitive, but I can't shake off the feeling of almost passing out every time I come across a wound, especially when fresh blood is flowing out of it.

I manage to reach the hallway where my room is located.

Don't look at your hands, Mabs.

Everything's okay. It's just ketchup. Pretend it's ketchup.

Before I can even finish fooling my own mind, my gaze slides to my blood-stained hands. The drops leave messy streaks along my forearms, and I can feel the warmth they leave behind.

This shit is making me feel sick.
I think I'm about to pass out.

Just one more step.

The colored dots in my eyes intensify, completely blocking my vision, and then darkness takes over. I feel myself slipping backward, as if succumbing to an overpowering sleep.

"Mabel! Shit!" I hear a voice shouting from afar, but it gets swallowed by the silence that deafens me.

I can't pass out. I can't pass out. I can't pass o-...

But just as I think that, I pass out.

***

In my ears, there's a buzz of confused dialogues, sounding like a distant, gloomy dream.

"I think she's dead."

"She's still breathing, Ni."

"I don't know, she looks too pale. I say she's dead."

"Well, problem solved then. Right?"

"At most, we have another huge fuckin' problem, Liam. A problem as big as this goddamn house, if not bigger."