Wrists

My throat burns. My eyes burn. My body’s shaking.

I was to the point where I couldn’t even stand myself anymore. I locked myself in the bathroom and pulled and pulled at the fat skin on my stomach until it left aching scratches. And then I blindly snatched up my phone, retrieved that folded piece of paper, and dialed the number.

I could hear my sniffling and whimpering echoing against the bathroom walls as I waited for him to pick up. I wanted him to pick up so badly. But the demons were telling me to put the phone down. To just put it down and sit there in my misery.

He picked up before I could completely make up my mind.

“Hello?” gruff voice. “Who is this?”

“...Graham.”

Long pause. Moving on the other line. More silence. “...Graham? You don’t sound too good. Are you alright over there?”

I opened my mouth, trying to talk, but a whimper came out instead. I couldn’t bare to look at myself in the mirror. “I... no...” That was all I could make out. Nothing else. Because I knew if I fell for that sweet, understanding voice I would spill all my insecurities. Everything would come out, and I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. I didn’t want to become a victim to him; I didn’t want him to know anything about me, but at the same time I did.

“Where are you?” He asked. “Where are you, Graham?” He sounded serious; voice tight—stern. I let myself fall victim to that voice. “Hello? Graham?”

“I’ll meet you.”

I hung up.