Wrists

10 calls and 4 voice mails from Elijah awaited me on my phone. If it were any other moment but this one, I would’ve picked it up and talked to him, begging for his forgiveness and hoping everything was alright between us. But I was stuck in the car with my mother, whom was driving straight towards my holding cell. She didn’t want to say a word to me—she couldn’t even look at me.

I wonder what she saw.

We finally pulled into the parking lot of my hell hole, and she turned off the ignition. I sat quietly as she turned to me, shaking her head like a disappointed mother about to scold her young child. My insides felt sick upon sight of that; it hurt so much that I was making her hurt. Making her worry. Making her life shit by acting this way; being this way.

I was genuinely sorry for everything. What kind of demon felt remorse?

“You’re going to get some help.” My mother said carefully. She gave me a stern look. “I thought me being there for you could help you recover at home, but I guess I was wrong.” She shook her head again and pushed some hair out of her tired face. My stomach churned. “Please do something for yourself, Graham. I want you to know I’m not ditching you or turning my back to you by sending you here.” She looked me in my eyes. “I want you alive.” Short pause. “So please. Get. Better.”

And, with that, she walked me inside to check me in.

I watched her, dumbly, as she gave me one last, weary look, and then disappeared behind the sliding glass doors.

Leaving me inside.