The Sweetest Kill: A Young Adult Paranormal Read Free

no one will notice and ask prying questions. I decide to remove my shirt and admire my handiwork. The scars would probably look monstrous to anyone who saw them. My dad cried when he first saw the thick lines that formed on my arms as a result of the cutting and the circular marks that were from the time I experimented on burning myself. Mom, on the other hand, didn’t say anything. But then again, I didn’t really expect her to.
    I slip off my bra and underwear before getting into the shower. Once inside, I let the water cascade down my scarred body and wash away the grime of the outside world. Right there in my tiny bathroom, I know I’m in a safe. I know I’m in a place where no one can see me and touch me, so I let it all out. Everything I’ve been holding in comes out in sobs, as I lower myself into the tub.
    I don’t like crying in front of others. I never have and, most likely, never will. But when I’m in my sanctuary, I can let all my inhibitions go and just do whatever I want. I curl into a ball and I rock myself back and forth, until I literally can’t cry anymore. With the little hot water left, I wash myself before turning off the shower. I let all the emotion drain away with the excess water. I don’t need it anymore.
    When I exit the bathroom, I hear my phone ringing. As a lifelong hater of cell phones, I only have a landline, and only four people ever call me on it. Glancing at the alarm clock on the windowsill by my bed, I deduce the caller is either my mother or someone who dialed my number by mistake.
    I pick up the pale yellow phone and press it to my ear, as water droplets trickle down the stained carpet below. “Hello?”
    “Annie?” my mother says in her heavily accented voice. “Are you there?”
    “Yeah Mom, I’m here.”
    “How are you feeling?”
    I roll my eyes at the question and place the receiver against my shoulder. I sit down on my bed, wearing only a towel, “I’m fine, Mom. How are you?”
    “I’ve been well. Your father wanted me to call you to invite you to Sunday dinner.”
    “Why?” I ask with a frown at the reminder. “Is it at a different time or something?”
    “No.”
    “Then why are you calling me when we have Sunday dinner every week?”
    She’s silent on the other end of the phone and this confirms the real reason why she’s calling. She just wanted to make sure I hadn’t killed or seriously injured myself. She does this out of worry, I know. But hell, I doubt if the woman herself will admit it. Her concern is always dressed up in some half-assed and barely reasonable excuse.
    “So, are you coming?” she eventually asks.
    I sigh as I dig my nails into my damp scalp. “Yes, I’ll be there.”
    “How was work today? Anything good happen?”
    “I was able to leave.” I quip before I can stop myself.
    “You have to be positive, Annie. You know what the doctor says. A positive mind and a positive outlook makes a positive life.”
    “Yeah, well, Dr. Reynolds is full of shit.”
    “Shoshanna!” she gasps through the phone. “What did I say about swearing? It makes you ugly.”
    “Right. Sorry.”
    She’s quiet for a minute before speaking again, and I know she’s digging for a topic to keep me on the phone. “Have you been taking your pills?”
    I glance at the twin brown bottles on the windowsill and chew on my lower lip. “Yes, every morning.”
    “Have they been helping?”
    I could tell her the truth. I could say that I feel like I’m living in a haze. I could tell her that, more often than not, I cry myself to sleep. I could tell her that, after I take the anti-depressants, I have to bargain with myself so I don’t throw them up. I could tell her that the pills didn’t help or stop me from mutilating myself. I could tell her, but that wouldn’t do either of us any good. So what’s the point?
    “Yeah, Mom. They’ve been helping.”
    “You’ll get better this time. I’m sure of it.”
    I know she can’t see me, but I give the