Lift // Hamliza

• chapter 24 •

tw: mentions of abuse, self harm
• Alexander •

The rest of the night and Saturday flew by. We fell asleep not long after we said our first "I love you's" on Friday, and Saturday was spent starting choreography for the competition. We decided on keeping it pretty much the same, especially the beginning and end, but just cleaned things up and wrote down the choreo in case we forgot.

Sunday's were always a letdown for both of us. They were the days she spent with her family, so I didn't intrude on them. I didn't even really call or text her at all on Sundays. So when this one came and I was alone, it wasn't great.

Before Eliza, I was used to being by myself more often. But now, it was anxiety inducing and lonely without her.

Today was Sunday. I sat in my apartment on the old grey couch, not doing anything. Not watching TV, not on my phone, not studying. Just sitting idly. That's when I knew even with Eliza, my depression was back.

Actually, I take that back. I knew for a while. Even before we started dating, I'd say. She just kept my demons far away from me. But they were there.

I began to think back to what happened Friday. My face looked almost normal by now, except for two or three small bruises here and there. But it wasn't the physical harm Thomas caused me that hurt. It was the verbal.

I never really addressed the things he'd say to me, to him or to anyone in general. He'd call me "gay", or "a girl" or "fag". It stung. Especially the f - one, because I was friends with a ton of LGBT+ people and I'm bi.

His words washed over me as I sat on that old couch. They shook my core the more I thought about them. I couldn't help but think back to my father.

"You will never be anything more than a fag. I should be proud of this family, but I can't be because all of you are fucking disappointments!" He shouted, slapping me hard in the face. He'd caught me holding hands with another boy at the beach. And now he was mad, and drunk.

My mother ran in, hearing my cries for help.

"And you! You bitch, why did I even marry you? You're just a good for nothing slut!" He yelled out, lunging for my mom and tossing her to the ground. He laughed evilly.

"This is what you deserve." And then, kicking her hard in the throat, she lost her consciousness, then moments later, her life.

I couldn't help but see my father in Thomas. In his offensive and abusive ways. My hands shook as I tried to push the thoughts away, and I became more and more desperate, sinking to the floor, wanting to scream and cry and everything in between. I tried to breathe, running a panicked hand through my hair to try and calm down, but to no avail.

The walls felt like they were closing in on me, suffocating me as I heard my father and Thomas chanting the names and insults, over and over in my head. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't catch my breath at all.

I gave in and began to sob, choking on my tears, which were only making it more and more difficult to draw in breaths. My thoughts from my earlier years came back.

Why don't I just quit dance?

Why don't I just stop trying?

Eliza probably doesn't really love me anyways.

All my friends hate me.

I will never be loved.

I don't deserve to live.

I suddenly shot up onto my feet, looking with desperate urgency for the object I hadn't used in years but for some reason still had. I felt sick knowing Eliza had been doing the same thing at one point and would be hurt knowing I did it too. But I pushed the thought aside and continued searching, needing the razor so bad I couldn't bear it much longer.

I tore through the apartment, through every room, slamming open cabinets and ripping open drawers and digging through closets. At long last, which, in reality was three minutes later, I found the silver, red coated object in a tiny bag under my sink behind extra bottles of shampoo.

Sitting there on the cold bathroom tile, I felt the weight of my mothers death and my fathers abuse and Thomas's bullying.

Every name was a cut. Every insult, every punch, every kick, every backhanded comment was a cut. I eventually stopped trying to find reasons, cutting because I simply wanted to feel something that wasn't anxiety.

I didn't regret it in the end like I should've, after I finished cutting my arms until there was more red covered skin than my usual tan complexion. I didn't regret it after all was said and done and I was out of my panic attack.

I should've cried in shame, I should've wallowed in the fact that I failed my own directions I gave Eliza. I should've screamed when I realized she'd see the next day.

But I didn't do any of that. Because, while I cared about Eliza with all my being, I didn't care about myself.

I just didn't care.