I almost broke down and told him what happened to me on

my twelfth birthday. I almost told him that I couldn’t handle it. That I couldn’t handle anything. But fear owned me and I pressed on

the gas and drove the truck forward.

I ended up running over the neighbor’s mailbox and proving

my dad wrong. I wasn’t allowed to drive for the next few months

and I was glad. Because to me driving meant growing up and I

didn’t want to grow up. I wanted to be a child. I wanted to be

twelve years old and still have the excitement of life and boys and

kisses and crushes ahead of me.

“Fuck, it’s freezing out here.”

My head snaps up at the sound of Luke’s voice and I quickly

shut my journal. He’s standing a few feet away from me with his

hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans and the hood of his

dark blue jacket tugged over his head.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask, sliding my pen into the

spiral of the notebook.

His shoulders rise and fall as he shrugs and then he sits

down beside me. He stretches his legs out in front of himself and

crosses his ankles. “I got a random call from Seth telling me that I

should come out here and check up on you. That you might need

to be cheered up.”

My gaze sweeps the campus yard. “Sometimes I wonder if he

has spy cameras all over the place. He seems to know everything,

you know.”

Luke nods in agreement. “He does, doesn’t he.”

I return his nod and then it grows quiet. Snowflakes drift

down and our breath laces in front of our faces. I wonder why he’s

really here. Did Seth tell him I needed to be watched?

“You want to go somewhere?” Luke uncrosses his ankles and

sits up straight. “I don’t know about you, but I could really use a

break from this place.”

“Yeah.” I don’t even hesitate, which surprises me. Does that

mean I’m getting over my trust issues?

He smiles genuinely, but there’s intensity in his eyes;

something that’s always there. I used to be intimidated by it, but

now I know it’s just him. Besides, I think he hides behind it—maybe

fear, loneliness, or the pain of life.

I tuck my notebook underneath my arm and we get to our

feet. We hike across the campus yard, heading toward the

unknown, but I guess that’s okay for now. I’ll know where I’m

going when I get there.

Chapter 2

#22 Make a decision that frightens you

Kayden

Whenever I close my eyes, all I see is Callie. Callie. Callie.

Callie. I can almost feel the softness of her hair and skin, taste her, smell the scent of her shampoo. I miss her so fucking badly I can’t

breathe sometimes. If I could sleep forever, I would, just so I could hold onto the one thing that makes me happy. But eventually I

have to open my eyes and face the reality I put on myself.

The torture.

The brokenness.

What’s left of my life.

I probably don’t deserve to think about Callie, not after what

I did, after she found me… like that. She knows my secret now, the

darkest one I’ve hidden inside me since I was a kid, the one that’s

the biggest part of me. The worst part of it is that she didn’t hear it from me. She heard it from my mother.

It’s for the best, though. Callie can go on living her life and

she can be happy not having to deal with my problems. I’ll stay

here and keep my eyes shut and hold onto the memory of her for

as long as I can because that’s what keeps me breathing.

* * *

I’d never been afraid of death. My dad started beating the

shit out of me when I was young and an early death always kind of

seemed inevitable. Then Callie entered my life and my acceptance

of an early death was wrecked. I’m afraid of death now, something

I realized after I cut my arms. I can remember watching the blood

drip onto the floor and then staring at the bloody knife in my

hand. All this doubt and fear had washed through me and I’d

regretted it. But it had already been done. As I lay down on the

floor, all I could see was Callie’s sad face when she’d hear the news that I was dead. There would be no one to protect her from the

world if I was gone. And she needed protecting—deserved it more

than anyone. And I was such a fuckup that I couldn’t even give her

that.

About two weeks after the incident, I was transferred to the

Brayman’s Facility, which isn’t much better than the hospital. It’s

located over on the side of town near the garbage dump and an

old trailer park. The room is bare, with plain white walls, no

decorations and a stained linoleum floor. The air smells a little less sterilized, but the garbage dump odor drifts into my room

sometimes. There’s not so much death lingering over everyone’s

heads, but people really like to talk about it. I’ve been here for only a few days and I’m not sure when I’ll be ready to leave yet. I’m not

sure about a lot of things.

I’m lying in bed, which I do a lot, staring out the window,

wondering what Callie is doing right now. I hope something fun

that makes her happy and smile.

It’s almost time for my checkup so I slowly sit up in the bed,

placing my hand over my side where I was stitched up. The knife

miraculously missed my organs and it was actually the less severe

of my injuries. I was lucky. That’s what everyone kept telling me. I

was also lucky I didn’t cut any major arteries on my wrist. Lucky.

Lucky. Lucky. The word keeps getting thrown around, like

everyone’s trying to remind me how precious life is. I don’t believe

in luck though, and I’m not even sure I believe that surviving

means I’m lucky.

Several times while I was in the hospital, I thought about

telling someone what really happened, but I was so doped up on

painkillers that I couldn’t seem to clear my head enough to get

around to it. When the fog in my brain finally cleared, I saw the

situation for what it was. I’d just kicked Caleb’s ass, I was

considered unstable, and the scars on my body raised concern for

self-mutilation. I’d be going up against my father and I’d lose, like I always have. There was no point in telling anyone what really

happened. People would see only what they want to.

The nurse enters my room with my chart in her hand and a

cheery smile on her face. She’s older, with blonde hair and dark

roots, and she always has red lipstick on her teeth.

“How you doin’ today, hun?” she ask in a high voice, like I’m

a child. It’s the same tone the doctors use on me because I’m the

kid who tried to slit his wrists and then stabbed himself with a

kitchen knife.