The Lies He Spoke

THIRTY FIVE

There was no way this was going to go over as normal. This was not normal. This was horrible.

Logan was screwed.

"Um." Logan cleared his throat. He pushed himself off the floor, carefully avoiding getting any closer to anybody. He tried to ignore the growing painful pulsing beneath his ribs and resisted the urge to check that the bandages were still flat against his body. "Did you say you wanted to eat or what?"

For four very long seconds, Blake stared at him, and Logan could almost hear him coming to dangerously accurate conclusions.

He's going to say it he's going to say it he's going to say it.

But then Blake blinked and shook himself gently and said, "What? Sorry, I zoned out. Are we eating? Was it fried rice? Did you know, by the way, that we need to eat less meat. Andy said that's better for the environment. I think I want to be a hippie environmentalist when I grow up."

"I'm pretty sure the world is going to end anyways."

"Logan, you are such a Debbie Downer. Right, Olivia?"

"Yeah."

After they ate, Logan volunteered to wash the dishes. When Blake tried to help him, Logan gave him a non-too-gentle toe nudge in the ribs out of the kitchen. Bouncy music streamed in from the living room while Logan scrubbed the pots and pans. He could hear Blake and Olivia's muffled laughter and knew they were dancing together.

His ribs ached. He was a terrible brother. Why couldn't he be anything for either of them? Blake was worried and Olivia was terrified and he just.

Needed.

To.

Hurt.

"No, stop," he whispered to himself. He pressed his wet hands against his temples and counted down from fifty in threes.

Then he did in sixes.

Then sevens.

And even though that took quite a while, by the end, he still wanted to die.

Tears of frustration filled his eyes. He couldn't do this. It wasn't working anymore. Nothing was helping anymore.

He failed. Again.

He half heartedly finished the last pan, told Blake and Olivia, who were now doing some complicated steps using instructions on Blake's phone, he was going to sleep, and retreated to his room.

But instead of going to sleep, he took an empty notebook outside and alternated between crumpling the sheets and tearing them into tiny pieces.

Minutes ticked by.

Logan pressed his fingernails into his palm so hard they left marks.

An hour passed. He gathered the scraps of paper and balled them together hard.

He got up and made it halfway to the bathroom before he clenched his jaw tight and turned around and went back to his room.

He laid on his bed and stuffed his face into his pillow and tried to breathe.

Just a little bit. He would stop after one cut. He just needed it once.

He got up again and got to the bathroom, but when he looked in the cabinets, there was not a single razor in sight. All of the disposable razors in the package underneath the sink, his electric shaver, and even Olivia's pink razor that was usually left in the shower were gone.

Logan put his hands against the sink and leaned his head down, chin against his chest, arms trembling. This was definitely his little sister's doing.

He squeezed the porcelain, fingers burning. He couldn't decide whether he was relieved or angry.