Hemorrhage.

There was a banging on my door, but I was trying to ignore it the best I could. I wrapped the blankets up around my ears, resting my fists on the crown of my head. I let out a soft sigh, shoulders slumping as the banging continued. If they were banging on my door, that meant it was either my mother or someone my mother let in. If it was someone my mom let in, than it was either Pat or John.

My phone buzzed again, and this time, with an eye roll, I used my hand to search in the covers for it. The buzzing sound was annoying me, and I wasn’t too fond of the way the vibrations traveled through the mattress, either.

My fingers grasping the tiny plastic, I scooted it closer to me, before clutching it in my hand and bringing it before my eyes. I had four missed calls and seven text messages.

I groaned, before exiting out of the missed call log to read the text messages.

They were all from a different, unknown number.

Mia was right.

You’re a whore.

You’re nothing to him.

Stop acting like such a selfish bitch.

Maybe you should find your own boys, instead of stealing someone else’s.

It’s a joke for you to think that John could ever care about someone like you.

Just give up now - John will never love you, so stop acting pathetic and trying to make him.

Each message got a little longer. Each message got a little meaner. Each message hit a little closer to home.

I let out a staggered breath, before closing out of the messages. I stared at my phone’s blank background - I hadn’t personalized it since I got it, rather leaving the same white T-Mobile pattern. I hadn’t felt like I had anything to personalize it with. I had no cute pictures of me or someone else. I didn’t have anything that I would want to stare at repeatedly, day after day.

The banging on the door continued, but this time there was a voice accompanied with the incessant pounding.

“Emelie!” The voice yelled. “I want you to open this door right now, young lady.”

I let out a breath of relief (one I hadn’t, until that moment, realized that I had been holding) and slowly edged out from underneath the duvet. I could handle dealing with my mother. John or Pat on the other hand, would be too much.

I opened the door hesitantly, cracking it only enough so I could stick my head out.

“Yes?”

My mother was staring at me, hip jutted out, hand resting comfortable on the tops of her jeans. Her eyes looked a little stressed and her face was red.

“Are you okay?” She asked me urgently. “You’ve been up in your room for the entire day, and that’s not healthy. You haven’t even come down for meals. Should I call Dr. Meyers?”

I shook my head. “Don’t call Dr. Meyers.”

I avoided her first question. I didn’t know how to answer that without lying.

“Are you okay?” She repeated.

I shrugged my shoulders in response.

“What’s wrong?” She rephrased her question, I’m guessing in hopes that it would make me open up a little more.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like my mom - we got along fine. If anything, she was a little over zealous about our relationship, but I had learned to accept that. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to shut her out of my life, either. I had no problem sharing with my mother about the problems currently going on. It was just that I really didn’t want to talk about the situation. I knew that as soon as I told someone about what had just happened - even if that someone was just my mother - that suddenly it would be more realistic than I was thinking it was, and somehow, it would be worse. Involving other people would ultimately make the matter that much more terrifying to deal with.

“I just had a bad day.” I said. It wasn’t a lie - of the technical sense. I had a bad day. I had several bad days, actually. This one was just more severe than the others.

My mother still looked worried. “What happened, sweetie? Do you want to talk about it?”

I shook my head slowly. “I really don’t feel like talking about it. I’d just like to go to bed, if that’s okay.”

My voice sounded so timid and weak. I sounded like I was a broken person. I guess, in a way, maybe that was true. I felt broken. Incomplete. I felt like there had suddenly been a chunk ripped out of me, and no matter how much I fought and reached, that chunk of me was never coming back.

I refused to think that John was never coming back, even if the odds did look slim.

“You should eat something,” she insisted. “It’s not good for you to sit around without eating.”

I blinked at her, but said nothing.

“Do you want me to bring something up for you? Saltines? Maybe some soup?”

I didn’t want to eat. Eating was part of the reason that John didn’t like me in the first place. I didn’t tell her this, though. I just nodded my head, because I knew that the only way to end this conversation was to compromise.

She smiled, sending me a quick flash of her teeth, before nodding quickly. “Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll go down and make you some tomato soup. I’ll be up in about fifteen minutes, so when I knock, answer the door.”

I nodded yet again.

I was afraid that if I spoke, my voice would crack and she would realize that I was having a worse day than I was letting on.

I just wanted to be okay, really. I just wanted to feel okay.

I closed the door when she turned around, before making the small trek back to the comfort of my bed. I sat down on it delicately, my hand reaching out for my phone. Our of the four missed calls, I only had one voicemail. I was a little scared to listen to it.

I gazed at my phone, before deciding that I needed to get over this on my own. I needed to ignore what everyone was telling me and come to terms with my emotions on my own time.

My thumb poised over the red telephone on the screen. I pressed down and waited until the speaker chimed, signaling that the phone was turned off. I set it aside.

This was what I needed to do: disconnect.

I slept for three days, waking up only to use the bathroom and scarf down the Saltines that my mother watched me eat. I kept my phone off and tucked in the farthest corner of my room (so I wouldn’t be tempted to turn it on). I listened to Brand New on my iPod and I cried, salty tears collecting on fabric of my feather pillow.

My mother said I was grieving.

She didn’t know what exactly I was grieving over, but she was still quite confident that I was.

If I was grieving, I didn’t know what about.

I thought maybe I was grieving over the loss of John, or maybe I was just grieving over myself. I didn’t know what I was turning into, but I didn’t know how to stop.

I had to get up today, because my mother said I had group therapy at the rec center. I got up grudgingly, before changing into a pair of sweat pants and a pastel yellow v-neck. I piled my hair high atop my head and opted for glasses instead of the usual contacts.

The ride to the rec center was silent, save the few times she tried to make conversation -

“So, honey, are you doing any better?”

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Are you doing okay? Be honest with me here?”

I always stayed silent, partially because I didn’t want to talk, and partially because I didn’t know what to say to her.

How do you explain a situation like that?

“Oh, Mom, really, it’s nothing. It’s just that the one person I thought I could trust in the world has a bitch of a girlfriend, and she said some really mean stuff to me that made me realize how shitty of a situation I’m in. It’s not a big deal, though. No need to worry.”

I had the slightest notion that that wouldn’t really fly.

She dropped me off at the front of the center, giving me detailed instructions on how to get to the fourth floor and what way to turn to get to the number I was supposed to.

I had the faintest notion to just not go - ditch, like I used to sometimes with Pat when we didn’t want to go to seventh period. I could just not show up.

I knew that there was most likely someone there waiting for me to show up, though. Someone with a roll list and my mother’s phone number in hand, ready to dial the second the meeting started and I wasn’t occupying one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs.

I wasn’t in the mood to get into another fight, so I took the elevator up to the fourth floor and I trudged my way until I got to room 405. The door was open and there were people talking inside.

I approached slowly, my strides short. The room was small - a lot smaller than I expected, but maybe this wasn’t supposed to be a big support group.

There were thirteen chairs, all arranged in a circle, and a table with Gatoraide and cookies.

I walked in silently, and looked at the other people around me. There were two really thing girls in the corner, talking quietly, and a rather overweight girl standing next to the cookie table, but not eating.

I took a seat in one of the uncomfortable chairs, one right next to the door, and fingered my phone in my pocket. I took it with me, but I still hadn’t turned it on. I was a little afraid to.

I gazed ahead of my, my mind off somewhere else. I was reliving the moment John burst through the door over and over again, and the look on his face when he saw me. He looked almost disgusted. Revolted at the very sight of me.

I just didn’t know why.

What had I done to upset him so much?

I let out a sigh, and then snapped out of my daze when I realized that the blonde woman with too much pink lipstick was clapping her hands and looking around the suddenly full room anxiously.

“Hello,” she greeted. “My name is Connie and I’m here today to help you all on the road to recovery.”

Oh, my god. What self-help book did you steal that one from?

“Since I’m sure today is a hard day for all of you, we’re going to do something relatively easy.”

Mhm. You say that now.

“Today we’re going to talk about challenges. Can anyone define a challenge for me?”

Having to sit here and listen to you talk without throwing up, that’s a challenge.

“No one? Okay. Well, to me, a challenge is something that is really hard for you to complete, but is ultimately worth it in the end. So, a challenge could be climbing a mountain for the accomplishment, or finishing a paper for a good grade.”

Nice. Using literary tools to make this seem interesting. What’s next? Confetti? Balloon animals? Should I be looking around for the midgets?

“Today, everyone here is dealing with the same challenge - their body imagine. Now, today, I want to talk about…”

I stopped listened when she started blabbing on about self-control and peer pressure. It wasn’t like it was something I hadn’t heard before.

I heard it all before.

The words had been repeated back to me at least fifty times, but they never seemed to set in. What exactly did she mean when she said shit like that? I didn’t really know.

I think I missed most of the meeting, because the next time she was saying something everyone else was gathering their things.

“Well, I think we had a good meeting today, discussing challenges. Now, I have a project for everyone - listen up, listen up - your assignment is to do something challenging between the end of this meeting and the next one. Make it something memorable, because we’ll be discussing our challenges the next time we all get together. Thanks for coming. Have a great day, girls!”

I stood up from the chair and brushed my sweatpants off.

A challenge. What was a challenge to me? More importantly, what was a challenge that I could do and openly talk about?

There wasn’t much that I could think of.

Then, my hand dug deep into my pocket, retrieving my phone.

I walked out of the room, following the throng of people into the elevator and down to the main floor. None of the girls were really talking.

I pulled out my phone, and with a brave face, turned it on.

Maybe this would be my challenge: turning on my phone. That seemed a little lame to me, though. Maybe I would take it a step further.

Maybe I would listen to my voicemail.

I looked down at the screen as I watched it load. I had two more missed calls, and three texts from unknown numbers (which, for once, I ignored). I still only had one voicemail.

I decided to be brave for once. I decided to do something that would scare me shitless.

I called my voicemail. I pressed my four-letter password and then pound.

My heart vibrated against my chest as I waited for the one new message to load.

“Emelie? Emelie, it’s John. I bet you know that, but…I don’t know. Emelie, please answer your phone. I need to talk to you, about what happened between you and Mia. I don’t understand why you apologized. You didn’t do anything - I heard what she said, Em. Please, just call me back. I need to talk to you so bad. I need to tell you that what she said is--,”

Beep.