“Fucking weirdo,” I mutter, unable to hold back my smile. “Smooth. It’s got to be smooth.”

No!

I snap my eyes open.

Inhale.

And throw the jar across the room on a thunderous roar, my head going into my hands, trying to suppress the torture. Trying to shy away from a time just before my life fell apart. Just before the downward spiral started. I can’t escape. And I don’t deserve to.

I jump up from the couch and take myself to the bathroom, stripping out of my clothes on my way. And I stand in front of the mirror, gazing at my reflection, my eyes drifting to my scar. I rest my finger on the edge and trace the jagged line. I’m beyond hope. Broken.

And I’d be stupid to think she could fix me.

I spent Wednesday hiding. Hiding from the world, from my friends, from my thoughts. I ignored endless calls from endless people, buried under my duvet.

Hiding from the alcohol.

They can’t see me like this.

The moment I open my eyes on Thursday, I throw the sheets back and force myself out of bed, pulling my shorts on quickly and heading out the door. I run. I run so fast, so hard. I lose all feeling in my legs, and if I run even harder, even faster, I’m hoping I will lose all feelings everywhere. Be rid of this madness. Be numb.

Yet with the wind whooshing past, my eyes trained on the path before me, endless, tormenting flashbacks hound me, goad me, remind me of that extreme sense of unrestrained abandon. One by one, my bastard memories of Tuesday evening play out, a few agonizing splinters of my history joining the chaos in my head. “No.” My pace increases. Run away from them.

There’s something.

“Fuck!” I yell, my legs failing me, slowing, taking me down to a slower jog. Sweat pours from every pore, running into my eyes, and I come to a stop, rubbing into the sockets, the sting killing me. I’m forced to sit myself down on the grass, unable to see clearly. I also need to catch my fucking breath. I’m a mess. A broken, fucked-up mess, and I feel no better for having nearly killed myself running fuck knows how many miles.

I fall to my back and stare at the sky. I can’t run away. I’m trapped.

Lonely.

I’m at the mercy of my demons and, fuck, I could cry my fucking eyes out.

Helpless.

My phone rings, and I blindly reach into my pocket, pulling it out, hoping it’s Ava. The only voice I want to hear. Of course, it’s not her.

“Sarah,” I breathe, my lungs tight.

“I’m at your apartment,” she snaps impatiently. “Where the hell are you?”