Chapter 60: "The Mask is Slipping"
Morning came like an unwanted guest — quiet, heavy, and unkind.
Zariah sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the same hoodie she'd worn for three days straight. It smelled faintly of dried blood and lavender detergent. She didn't care. She pulled it on and pressed her sleeves over the fresh bandages like armor.
Downstairs, there was no sign of her mom. The note on the counter said, "Early shift. Be safe. Love you."
Zariah stared at it for a moment before folding it and stuffing it in her pocket. She didn't know why. She just didn't want to throw it away.
School felt colder than usual — not in temperature, but in energy. The walls felt tighter, the hallways louder. Every whisper felt like it had her name in it.
She slipped into homeroom without a word, head down, heart numb. Jasmine was already there. Their eyes met for a split second. Jasmine gave a small nod. Zariah didn't nod back — but she sat next to her.
The teacher glanced up. "Zariah," she said, startled. "You're back."
Zariah forced a small smile. "Yeah. Just wasn't feeling well."
"Is everything okay now?"
Zariah nodded quickly. "Just a lot on my mind."
The teacher hesitated, then moved on. Some students looked over. Others whispered. She heard her name. Heard "emo," "attention," "crazy."
None of them knew how close to the edge she was.
By third period, the buzzing in her head had returned. The math teacher greeted her kindly, but even that felt sharp. The questions on the board blurred. She got the answers right — her grades never slipped — but the numbers felt empty now.
In the hallway after class, a girl bumped her shoulder on purpose and laughed with her friends.
"Guess the little freak crawled back."
Zariah didn't say anything. Didn't flinch. She just kept walking.
She didn't realize Jasmine had heard until she grabbed Zariah's wrist and pulled her into a corner.
"You okay?" Jasmine asked, eyes scanning her face.
Zariah nodded.
But Jasmine didn't let go of her wrist right away. She glanced down. The bandage was slipping beneath the cuff of Zariah's sleeve. A flash of red.
"Zariah," Jasmine said, voice trembling. "Did you—?"
"I'm fine," Zariah said quickly, pulling her arm away. "It's not bad."
Jasmine's eyes filled with tears. "It's never not bad."
Lunch came, but Zariah barely touched the food on her tray. The noise around her made her skin itch. Someone dropped a metal spoon and she jumped.
She stood and walked out.
In the bathroom stall, she sat on the toilet lid and stared at the floor. Her sleeve slipped again. The bandage was soaked. She hadn't realized how deep she'd gone last night.
She rolled the fabric back over it, tighter this time. Her stomach twisted. And even though she hadn't eaten much, the guilt made her want to throw it up.
So she did.
When she got home that afternoon, the silence greeted her like an old friend.
Her mom still wasn't home.
Zariah went to the bathroom, locked the door, sat on the floor, and stared at the drawer where she kept the blades.
Her mind was already gone before her hands reached out.