give up when she saw an obituary ripped from the paper: Gerald Thomas Shippee of 6 Maple Street. Only the first line was there.
6 Maple Street.
It was the house where her mother had overdosed.
16 .
Harmony stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. It was after eleven and Adam’s bedroom was dark except for the flame of the lighter and the scant moonlight seeping in between the blinds. He leaned over and lit his cigarette off hers.
Adam turned on the bedside lamp. “So Brea just up and left? She just walked out of Oakwood alone and unprovoked? Just like that?”
He’d been asking since he picked her up from the library.
The partial obituary repeated in her mind. His name wasn’t Tom, it was Gerald. Gerald Thomas Shippee and the one person that could help her make a connection between her, him, and that house, her mother, was nowhere to be found.
“Yes, just like that.” Harmony kicked off the sheets and got out of bed. “God, will you let it go?”
The cool air shrunk her skin and made it goosebump. She grabbed a towel hanging from the doorknob and wrapped it around herself, and then snuffed her cigarette out in the saucer they used for an ashtray.
“It just doesn’t sound like Brea. How did she even get home?”
“She called Abercrombie.” Harmony slammed the bathroom door.
“Who the hell is Abercrombie?”
Harmony pressed her back to the wall and slid to the floor thinking about what Brea said. “You’re going to end up just like your mother.”
Schizophrenia was poison, one that took her mother’s responsibility, happiness, and love and left Harmony with the remaining shell. A skeleton-thin body the drugs and men used as they saw fit. She wanted to cry, but knew it would only bring Tom back. He thrived on weakness. She stifled a whimper.
“You all right in there?” Adam must have heard her.
“I’m fine,” she said, but she was lying.
She needed to talk. She wanted to tell him what happened with Brea but it meant admitting Tom and she knew better. He would think she’d gone beyond crazy. He would have her back on those pills, back at that hospital—back on that ward. She thought about her time in the psychiatric unit and broke down.
“I’ll never go back,” she whispered.
A weight pressed down on her chest, crushing her and sucking the breath from her lungs like a vacuum. She gasped and tried to breathe through her nose, but could barely get air.
The lights flickered and the mirror turned black.
The room became a freezer.
“I won’t let you do this to me.” She wiped her running nose on a wad of toilet paper and when she pulled it away, it was covered in blood.
“Shit, oh shit.”
She reached with a shaking hand for the finger nail clipper and used the fold out scraper to disassemble the disposable razor on the side of the bathtub. The flimsy casing splintered, cutting her hands and filling them with tiny, plastic thorns until there was nothing left of the razor but the strip of sharp, silver metal from inside.
She slid the thin metal along the inside of her arm and the blood dripped in small red dots on the ugly, green linoleum.
“I know your name,” she whispered. “I’m going to stop you.”
She sunk the pointed tip of the razor into the fleshy part of her thigh and the blood rolled down in perfectly tear-shaped droplets.
She let out a shrill, pained cry and Adam was immediately at the door.
“Harmony, open up.” He pounded the jamb with the heel of his hand. “Harmony, do you hear me? Open the goddamned door.”
Her mind said, “reach on over and unlock it,” but her body wouldn’t cooperate. She was Tom’s marionette. A doll for him to play with.
She dragged the razor toward her hip and let out another scream. Cut after cut, the razor tore through her, dulling increasingly, until the wounds skipped in dotted lines and she felt faint. Tears fell to her lap diluting the blood running down her thighs and swirling in Rorschach-like pools on
6 Maple Street.
It was the house where her mother had overdosed.
16 .
Harmony stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. It was after eleven and Adam’s bedroom was dark except for the flame of the lighter and the scant moonlight seeping in between the blinds. He leaned over and lit his cigarette off hers.
Adam turned on the bedside lamp. “So Brea just up and left? She just walked out of Oakwood alone and unprovoked? Just like that?”
He’d been asking since he picked her up from the library.
The partial obituary repeated in her mind. His name wasn’t Tom, it was Gerald. Gerald Thomas Shippee and the one person that could help her make a connection between her, him, and that house, her mother, was nowhere to be found.
“Yes, just like that.” Harmony kicked off the sheets and got out of bed. “God, will you let it go?”
The cool air shrunk her skin and made it goosebump. She grabbed a towel hanging from the doorknob and wrapped it around herself, and then snuffed her cigarette out in the saucer they used for an ashtray.
“It just doesn’t sound like Brea. How did she even get home?”
“She called Abercrombie.” Harmony slammed the bathroom door.
“Who the hell is Abercrombie?”
Harmony pressed her back to the wall and slid to the floor thinking about what Brea said. “You’re going to end up just like your mother.”
Schizophrenia was poison, one that took her mother’s responsibility, happiness, and love and left Harmony with the remaining shell. A skeleton-thin body the drugs and men used as they saw fit. She wanted to cry, but knew it would only bring Tom back. He thrived on weakness. She stifled a whimper.
“You all right in there?” Adam must have heard her.
“I’m fine,” she said, but she was lying.
She needed to talk. She wanted to tell him what happened with Brea but it meant admitting Tom and she knew better. He would think she’d gone beyond crazy. He would have her back on those pills, back at that hospital—back on that ward. She thought about her time in the psychiatric unit and broke down.
“I’ll never go back,” she whispered.
A weight pressed down on her chest, crushing her and sucking the breath from her lungs like a vacuum. She gasped and tried to breathe through her nose, but could barely get air.
The lights flickered and the mirror turned black.
The room became a freezer.
“I won’t let you do this to me.” She wiped her running nose on a wad of toilet paper and when she pulled it away, it was covered in blood.
“Shit, oh shit.”
She reached with a shaking hand for the finger nail clipper and used the fold out scraper to disassemble the disposable razor on the side of the bathtub. The flimsy casing splintered, cutting her hands and filling them with tiny, plastic thorns until there was nothing left of the razor but the strip of sharp, silver metal from inside.
She slid the thin metal along the inside of her arm and the blood dripped in small red dots on the ugly, green linoleum.
“I know your name,” she whispered. “I’m going to stop you.”
She sunk the pointed tip of the razor into the fleshy part of her thigh and the blood rolled down in perfectly tear-shaped droplets.
She let out a shrill, pained cry and Adam was immediately at the door.
“Harmony, open up.” He pounded the jamb with the heel of his hand. “Harmony, do you hear me? Open the goddamned door.”
Her mind said, “reach on over and unlock it,” but her body wouldn’t cooperate. She was Tom’s marionette. A doll for him to play with.
She dragged the razor toward her hip and let out another scream. Cut after cut, the razor tore through her, dulling increasingly, until the wounds skipped in dotted lines and she felt faint. Tears fell to her lap diluting the blood running down her thighs and swirling in Rorschach-like pools on
Similar Books
