Yes. This is a nice place, and I used to be someone who belonged here.

In my bathroom now, I look into the mirror to find a stranger staring back at me. Steam from the running water consumes the bathroom until the glass fogs over and I am suffocating.

The clothes I was wearing only hours ago are stuffed in an evidence bag at the police station. The Superman tee Jack gave me on the first night we met, my favorite pair of jeans, my once-white espadrilles. All ruined.

My body is an afterimage of the damage, a map of dark red told in streaks and smears. Jack’s blood is on my face and in my hair, on my arms and under my fingernails. There was so much, the paramedics had rushed to me, checking for signs of trauma, but they couldn’t see the hole in my heart.

My name is Remy.

I am seventeen years old.

This won’t last forever.

Elise taught me that once as a way to keep myself grounded. These are things I can hold on to. A reminder that how I feel now won’t be how I feel forever.

Standing in the shower, I let the water burn the last of him off my skin, watch the blood swirl down the drain until it runs clear.

But I can’t get clean. Even with every last drop of shampoo and soap gone, I am still scrubbing, until my skin and scalp are raw and angry.

Until the only thing left is a shaking, sobbing girl on the shower floor.

A shaking, sobbing girl who has to face a loss she’s not ready to accept. Part of me knows Jack’s no longer here, but I just don’t want him to be gone.

2.

They’re arguing again, my parents. It’s the only constant in my life. The sun will break over the horizon in the morning, and like clockwork, my parents will fight.

“What are you doing?” Dad shouts, following Mom as she paces around the living room. The phone is pressed against her face as she shushes him. Her eyes hold nothing but contempt.

“I’m calling a lawyer,” she says, her voice a sharp hiss.

“No one’s awake right now. It’s three in the morning.” He is exasperation and she is anger. These are the roles they’ve played for years.

My brother, Christian, and I sit quietly on the couch, my hair dripping, still wet from the shower. The sound of water hitting leather punctuates their screaming, a steady drumbeat to the crescendo of their anger. We don’t look at each other, we don’t look at them. This is so familiar it’s almost comforting. I can’t handle what’s happened, but this I could manage all day long, the shouting and cutting words, my parents at each other’s throats.

“Hi, hello,” Mom says when someone answers the phone. She shoots Dad a look: See? His mouth flattens into a thin line.

They pick up right where they left off after my mother ends the call. They argue about the lawyer—when will they be here, who is it, where did you even find them. They argue about how tired they are. They argue about what happened.