SEX Unlimited The Complete Volumes (27 page)

“Liz, leave her the hell alone already!” he scolds, gesturing for her to make her way to second period. “Remember what I said, skank,” she exclaims as she struts off down the hallway.

I look up to see that Jace is still standing here looking at me, his hands shoved into his jean pockets. I feel vulnerable and embarrassed. Why is he causing this awkward, silent moment to happen? I look away nervously and turn back to my locker, opening it quickly with shaky hands.

“Hey, I’m sorry about Liz and her tribe of bitches,” he says as I rustle through my locker, stalling so I don’t have to turn around and make eye contact with him. My hands are trembling, and I’m trying to regain some form of composure after the face-off with Elizabeth.

Just breathe, Jessica.

“Don’t let her rattle you so much. I didn’t hear what she was saying, but I promise you her bark is far more scary than her bite.”

He has no idea what his girlfriend is really like on the inside.

“Are you ready for swim this year? I hope we kick ass like we did last year,” he says, and I wonder why he’s trying to carry on a casual conversation with me. The bell rings.

Thank goodness.

I spin around and look at him with my mask of fake confidence. “Thanks, Jace. And yeah, I’m ready for swim team. I really have to get to class, though,” I mutter. His mouth turns up into a grin and he walks away in the opposite direction.

What was that all about?

Why do you care, Jace? Why?

If Elizabeth sees him carrying on a full-blown conversation with me, she’ll go apeshit. I’m like the plague around here, and the star quarterback talking to me is definitely not a good idea.

The day moves at an arduous pace, but I continue to avoid Elizabeth. I’m not sure what’s worse—this place and the way I seem to be the butt of everyone’s jokes or home where I’m invisible to everyone.

I go to my car and drive home, blasting Seether out of my speakers. I wonder what kind of day Mom is having. She’ll either be drunk, or be Martha Stewart; it’s a fifty-fifty chance.

I stopped caring a long time ago. When she’s not drunk, she tries too hard—it’s smothering. She overcompensates for her lack of parenting on the days she’s drunk as shit. I pull into the driveway and see her sitting on the porch, smoking a cigarette, and holding a glass of wine. There are kids outside playing next door where new neighbors are moving in. Their ball is in my way as I try to park, so I maneuver around it the best I can. A little girl smiles and waves at me as she retrieves the purple ball. I look up as I get out of my car and see Mom smile and wave sloppily at me.

Drunk day today...

“Hi, Mom,” I say hurriedly as I walk past her.

“Hi, sweetie. How wassss your day?” she slurs.

“Great, Mom. It was great!” I say, lying straight through my teeth. Telling her the truth is pointless.

I go inside to my room and slam the door behind me. After locking it, I reach over and pull out my hidden box of razors, alcohol swabs, ointment, and bandages. I flip my iPod docking station on and fall down onto my bed. Hinder plays as I pull up my shirt. Unbuttoning my jeans, I pull them down just barely enough to expose the fresh cut from this morning. I have to be really careful not to let the cuts get infected, so I clean and bandage them daily. It’s a normal routine for me.

I know I’ll have to put on a happy face when my dad gets home. He doesn’t really pay me any attention, but I always feel like he has me under a microscope, looking for any imperfection or mistake. I do my best to avoid him like everyone else in my life. The weekend is the only time I socialize, and that usually involves a guy. Sneaking out every night on the weekends is the norm for me. I’m usually cruising the back roads with whatever guy I’m seeing at the time, which changes often. I’m always too clingy, so they always run scared after they get what they want from me. Sex is my way of connecting, another way to feel something. I guess sex equals love for me since I have no idea what love really feels like. It’s my version of love and it fills a void, so I continue the vicious cycle of sleeping with every guy I go out with. The fact that guys have never noticed my scars really should tell me that they don’t care at all. I know it’s usually dark and they aren’t that visible, but to this day not one guy has noticed. If they have, they’ve never said anything.

After cleaning up my cut, I place a bandage on it and button my pants back up. Placing the box of items back in my nightstand, I pull out my journal and decide to write. I rarely understand why I feel the way I feel every day. Writing is my only true form of expression free from the fear of judgment. I can pour all of my feelings, fears, and frustrations into the pages of my journal and know that they’re all safe from the bullies that make my daily life a living hell. My secrets must stay hidden, just like my pain.

Pulling the cap off of the pen with my teeth, I chew on it anxiously as I write.

You only know the mask I wear

Who am I?

Do I even know?

Black...White...No gray

I either love or I hate

When I want to hold on, I claw

instead

No sense of purpose

Eyes that are dead

Regret and rejection I swallow down

I just want someone to love me

Emotional pain creeps all around

When someone hurts me, it hurts

forever

Be. Me. For. A. Day.

Let me walk beside you

Let me look over

See the me you see

Then you can walk beside me

See the you that I see

I’ll keep filling the hole in my soul with IOUs

While you keep filling it with I Hate Yous

I shut my journal and text Harrison. We had a good time this past weekend, no matter what Elizabeth had to say about it. Having someone makes me feel happy, even if it’s always short-lived.

Me:
Hey, I had fun last weekend. You want to hang out this weekend?

He texts right back, and I instantly feel better. Happier even.

Harrison:
Hey, babe. Yeah, I had a blast with you. You really know how to show a guy a good time! I’m not sure about this weekend. Jace and the guys invited me out. It’s just some sort of guys’ night out thing, but I’ll catch you some other time.

My smile fades along with my happiness, and I instantly feel rejected. I want him to want to be with me, not the guys. Why does this always happen? Why do I need them so badly? Why do I want them so badly?

It’s always the same. Every guy I date, I feel consumed by some sort of freakish need. I know it’s not normal, but I can’t make it stop. In the end it either pushes them away, or causes me to go off on an emotionally charged rant toward them. I regret it every time, but the cycle is on repeat nevertheless. I usually talk with them online because they don’t speak to me at school. No one really does—I’m bad for everyone’s reputation. Elizabeth makes sure of that. One day last year, Brian sat with me at lunch and Elizabeth and her group made him sorry he ever did.

My phone buzzes and I see that I have fifteen notifications on Instagram. That’s weird. I never get much action on any of the social media sites. I have no real friends to speak of. I tap the icon and open the app. I touch the little notification bubble and fifteen comments or likes pop up. It’s a picture of me. Shock freezes the blood in my veins as I scroll down. SlutPics123 posted a picture of me hanging myself. A quote bubble above my head says

They follow me everywhere I go; I can’t escape them! I know Elizabeth and Hailey did this, but this is a new low. Their weapons aren’t illegal, yet they cut me deeper than a blade ever could. Hiding behind electronic shields, they use their words like swords. I wonder what’s worse—the invisible scars they leave or the visible scars I inflict upon myself?

Therapy
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