Doro went back to Germany. I went into the highlands of Scotland—to Oban, Tobermory, Fort William, the Isle of Skye, Inverness—wanting to see the colder climbs before the true winter set in. I was convinced that by diving into winter I could eventually escape it. I watched the November snow fell in Inverness. I ached for the familiar snow of home. I was down to a quarter of a pill each day.
I broke south, to Cardiff, to London, to Portsmouth, and then I broke completely. I bought the ticket home on debt. Trying to brace myself against the reality of my shattered home, trying to find fire in my world without the daily withdrawal. When there were no pills left, I sat with the flat sharpness of the knife pressing into my skin, my shallow pulse pushing against the firm pressure of the blade. “Do you feel that?” I was trying so hard to cut away all that was absent from my veins, all that was in my bloodstream’s memories but not its membranes.
People look at the scars on my forearm sometimes. Every so often I catch someone staring. For a while I covered the scars with a bandage, but they itched constantly and I was afraid the covering might prevent the cuts from reaching the health of open air—prevent the injuries from mending. I’m not proud of the scars, but choose not to be ashamed. These injuries were the last attempt at life without relapse. The fire-seedling pills were not my friends, but it reached a point where they felt kinder than the alternatives.
I wake up every morning in withdrawal. If people ask where the scars on my arm are from, I tell them, “It’s a self-inflicted injury.” That they’re older wounds, but some scars just don’t heal right. I leave out the details.
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