Damaged: The Dillon Sisters by Layla Frost (good story books to read .txt) 📕

he’d been a year younger than me, and I was just a glorified poop scooper.

And glorified may have been a stretch because, as the photographic evidence showed, I did spend a lot of time cleaning up shit.

That he was rich enough to donate a shit-ton, and I still couldn’t afford to shop the discount stores with the copious amount of fucking coupons they sent me.

That he was so very normal, and I was so very not.

It wasn’t even my own low self-esteem and self-doubt and self-loathing leading to a lot of self-sabotage.

Okay, fine, it was all of that. But the final straw, the one that’d collapsed the flimsy façade of normalcy I’d tried to convince myself I could have, was the money.

Again, not that he had it while I didn’t.

But that he had it. Period.

Sure, I was being a judgmental bitch. And, yes, I was jumping to conclusions.

I didn’t care.

Because I knew well—too fucking well—the kind of problems money brought. The way it changed people. Or emboldened them to be themselves. I’d seen firsthand how the wealthy lied, cheated, and stole, only to buy their way out of consequences and responsibilities.

I’d lived that life. I’d portrayed the picture-perfect daughter in her picture-perfect life. I’d sashayed across the stage as a picture-perfect beauty queen. I’d starved myself to remain the picture-perfect girl. When none of that had been enough, I’d tailspinned for some picture-fucking-perfect control.

I hadn’t liked my so-called friends or my mother, but I’d nearly killed myself for their approval. I did like Alexander, and it would crush me when he found me wanting. And he would. Once he knew me. Once he saw my shame. He wouldn’t give me a charming smile or look at me the way he did.

It was more than I could cope with.

At the culmination of all my memories, pain, stress, and crushing disappointment, I could feel a tailspin starting.

My mantra didn’t help.

Nor did my breathing.

Nor did the cold air, the long walk, or time.

My stupid inner angst grew and grew and grew until I couldn’t fucking stand it.

Until I couldn’t stand myself.

My sister ran to help herself sleep. I often gave her a hard time by asking if she’d ever thought about falling asleep to Netflix like the rest of the world. But right then, I was desperate enough to try.

In my jeans and nice top, I started speed walking. Then jogging. Then running. Since exercise was something I did as often as clubbing and voluntarily talking on the phone—as in never—it wasn’t long before a cramp tightened my side. I exhaled a hiss and pushed myself harder. As the pain grew, so did my speed.

I ran like I was being chased by monsters.

Because I was.

Only my monsters lived inside my head.

I reached my apartment and jogged in place, trying to grasp at my sanity and convince myself to keep going. But when I moved, it was to go inside because running wasn’t enough.

I needed something more.

Locking myself in my apartment, I went directly to my closet and took out the forbidden item. I returned to the living room and sat on the edge of the couch. I flipped the pouch in my hands, watching the glitter shimmer.

Such a pretty case for such an ugly, ugly thing.

When just holding it no longer soothed me, I slowly unzipped it. And when that no longer helped, I began methodically removing the items, arranging them just so on the table.

Neosporin.

Bandages.

Razor blades.

And a switchblade straight razor.

Once the bag was empty, I rearranged the items. And then I rearranged them again. When I had them positioned just so, I stood and circled the coffee table, never taking my eyes off the sharp objects.

Slowly, the disappointment, anxiety, and crushing failure began to fade. I could lift one of those blades. I could put it to my skin.

And I wanted to.

So.

Fucking.

Bad.

But every time I thought of the sweet relief of the blade slicing through my skin or the peace my soul would finally have, Aria’s face entered my mind. Her horror at finding me. Her guilt that she’d failed me—again, in her opinion. I’d be leaving her alone with yet another trauma she’d be forced to deal with.

I was a lot of bad things, but I wasn’t selfish. I couldn’t do that to her, no matter how badly I wanted to.

It’s my choice not to cut. I hold the power.

I’m in control.

I repeated that over and over until I was no longer drowning. I was still overwrought and failing at being a functioning adult, but I wasn’t drowning. For right then, that was enough.

Packing away the items, I fought to ignore the taunting in my head. The familiar voice that called me weak. A failure. A loser and a coward. The one who said I was pathetic and didn’t have the guts to just end it. That I’d be doing everyone a favor, including Aria.

Especially Aria.

People always say that suicide is selfish. Which, honestly, is the worst, most counterproductive thing to say to someone who is already struggling. Because for so many, our demons tell us it’d be better for everyone else if we were gone. Piling on to that guilt just feeds those horrible feelings.

It reaffirms the twisted belief that we’re burdens to our loved ones.

But Aria has told me I’m not, time and reassuring time again.

Which was why I ignored my mother’s cruel voice as I picked up the pouch and went to the garbage can. Putting my foot on the pedal to open the lid, I stared down for long seconds that stretched into longer minutes. Then I let the lid close with a clatter before taking the pouch and burying it deep in my closet.

Just in case I needed the reminder that I was in control.

My mother cackled in my head, her words slurred and cutting. Wah, wah, wah. Poor, beautiful Briar, always needing to be the center of attention.

Just in case I was brave enough to finally get it over with.

Alexander

DRIVING SLOWLY, I followed Briar as