The Struggle (The Things We Can't Change Book 2) by Kassandra Kush Read Free Book Online Page B

own, by keeping Tony’s abuse secret. Tony’s, Zeke’s, Cindy’s, their dad’s, my own father’s. The feeling is overwhelming, choking me, and when I hear a soft plop I realize that I’m crying, arms wrapping around my middle as I slowly rock back and forth in my chair. Not sobbing, just… crying. Big, slow, fat tears that roll gently down my cheeks and land softly on my desk and notebook.
    I try to do as Dr. Gottlieb has been telling me, picture a different place to be in, reflect on happy times, remember that I am free , that none of this is my fault, but I know that it is. My mind won’t let me escape to a happier place. Instead, I can feel the thoughts leaking out, the airy feeling entering my limbs as my brain tries to escape the pain and guilt by floating into nothing.
    I can’t do that. I can’t. Last time my dad caught me, found me on the couch and said he was shaking me for five minutes before I was able to come back into myself. He’d almost taken me to the hospital, had asked too many questions. I can’t let it happen. Pain. I need pain to keep myself grounded, to feel it in my body so I can remember that is where I have to stay . I have to feel the physical pain in order to stay inside my body, so I can feel the emotional pain, let myself drown in it because it’s all my fault and I deserve it.
    A sudden stinging along my thighs brings me sharply back to reality, and I look down and see four long red marks along the length of my legs. I’ve scratched myself, and hard too, I realize as I see blood oozing at the beginning on the scratches, the deepest parts of them. Stop , I tell myself. I know it’s bad. I know I need to tell Dr. Gottlieb, or my dad. I just can’t make myself. They’ll try to get to the root of it, try to find out why I still feel so guilty that I am trying to escape reality, and then I’ll have to tell them about the message, and I just can’t.
    Even as I’m thinking about it, I’m panicking, everything pushing and pulling and crash-careening inside of me and my overloaded brain is trying desperately to push it all out, to escape it all. It’s not enough, not enough pain to keep me here, and I rake my nails up my thighs again, and again, until the entire tops of my legs are red and raw, tender to the touch and stinging at random points where my nails have broken the skin.
    “Stop! Stop!” I don’t know who I’m talking to, what I’m talking to. Telling myself to stop hurting myself, or telling Tony to stop haunting me. Or telling my guilt to just stop, or my mind to stop trying to leave my body, or if I’m just begging for all of it at once.
    Finally I manage to still my hands, bang a fist on the top of my desk and lay my head down on the hard, cool wood, tears still leaking out of my eyes. “Stop! Stop it!” I say it over and over, pounding my fist onto my desk with each word, until my hand is stinging and raw with pain just like my legs. Finally, I feel grounded, safe inside my own body, though now I am consumed with repulsion at myself, at what I’ve done, what I’m still doing even though I shouldn’t have a need for it.
    “You’re disgusting,” I say it out loud, so I’m forced to hear it, to acknowledge it. “Just like Tony always said.”
    No, no, no. Tony is WRONG! That sane part of me, the smallest, least dominant part of my mind that is so easily overruled, is screaming the words, but they are ignored. My emotions are running high, everything mashed together, so confusing, so overwhelming. The guilt, the sadness, the disgust with myself and Tony, the guilt . Tony. Zeke. Cindy. My dad.
    I deserve it. I know I deserve it, deserve to be tortured. No, you don’t. You don’t. You were a victim, you couldn’t have known! Stop it, Evie! Just stop it! Don’t do it!
    Even as I’m screaming at myself to stop, even though I promised myself I wasn’t going to do it again, that I would delete the damn thing, I’m still reaching for my cell phone. Dialing