The mouthwash sloshes between my cheeks until my eyes burn. I spit it out, flecks of blood swirling near the bottom of the sink. I’ve been grinding my teeth in my sleep for weeks, tearing open old wounds that’ll probably never heal.
I cup a handful of freezing water and splash it on my face. It trickles down, tracing the raised skin behind my left ear. It puckers near my hairline, the scar barely visible when I look straight ahead. Sometimes I forget it’s there and sometimes it throbs. Sometimes it whispers to me.
But this morning it wasn’t just a whisper. It was a shout, Jago’s voice yanking me out of sleep. I felt his hands pressing me to the pavement. Gravel grinding into my cheeks. The taste of dirt and oil making me choke while his fists pounded. Pounded. Pounded into me.
I thrashed at the blankets, gulping down air. Then I opened my eyes to streetlights flickering outside my bedroom window, the baseball cards tacked near the ceiling fluttering in the air conditioning.
You’re out. You’re out. You’re safe.
It’s a lie every time but it’s the only thing that lets me catch my breath.