I've given up hope that Frank is going to show up when I look up at the time to see that I've been alone for almost an hour. It dawns on me that I'm wasting this perfect opportunity to slip away upstairs and satisfy the familiar itch that's only growing worse by the second. The magnetic-like force drawing me upstairs can no longer be ignored.

Maybe if I just shut my eyes tightly enough and picture the dripping, red—

That's it.

I don't even remember the steps I took to get to my bathroom, or the speed at which I pulled open the drawer and clasped my hand around the cold piece of metal. I sit in the middle of my bedroom floor, ready to do whatever it takes to make the pain of the last few weeks go away.

When I roll up my sleeves, I take the time to really look at what I've done. The exposed skin is littered with cuts and scars. Many, I don't even remember making, as in bouts of gut-wrenching anxiety or midnight hysterics that I can't bring myself down from, the only thing that crosses my mind is this craving for the feeling of the blade against my arms, from the elbow to the wrist.

Of course, then it's all over again and I feel numb and empty. It's a vicious cycle I can't see myself breaking, especially now that, starting tomorrow, I'll be out from under the watchful eye of Gerard. He knows me like no one else does, not even in a way my own mother ever could, and I've had a hell of a time keeping this secret.

My only big secret, really, and I think that's part of the reason why it's so hard for me to tell. I'm not hanging on to anything else quite like this and I'd feel lost if I let it go. That, and, I don't want to disappoint anyone. I don't want their last memory of me to be how weak I was.

"Evelyn, are you in h— oh my god."

I freeze.

How didn't I hear anyone come through the front door? How didn't I notice someone come up the stairs?

Closing my hand tightly around the blade, I hold my breath as though maybe, if I just keep still long enough, he'll go away. Though the sound of my pounding heart can probably be heard from across the room.

It's much too late to pull down my sleeves again.

"Eve." Frank walks towards me carefully, breathless as though he ran in from the car and up the stairs at full speed. His feet creak on the floor as he takes slow steps like he's trying not to startle me. "What- what did you do?" he asks, his voice dripping with devastation. There was no need to ask, the answer clearly displayed in front of him.

I don't look up from my trembling fist. My eyes are already filling with tears and it would only make me look more pitiful if he saw.

"Eve?" Frank says again. He kneels in front of me, holding out his hand. "Give it to me, please."

I tighten my grip, feeling the metal dig into my palm. I never wanted to keep pretending, to keep lying, for so long. It wasn't ever my intention. And this isn't how I wanted anyone to find out.

"Frankie," I whisper. "Please don't tell Dad."

The weight of weeks of concealed shame, regret, and guilt are behind my whispered plea. I can see, in my mind's eye, Gerard's face fall if he ever found out what I've done and the shame would only grow if I ever had to confront it. It would suffocate me, like hands around my throat. Those of my own inner demons that I'm not strong enough to ward off. He's told me countless times before, after all, "Nothing's worth hurting yourself over," and I've agreed with him just as many times. Just to tell him what he wants to hear.

"Eve, please, give it to me." His hand is still outstretched.

"Only if you promise not to tell Dad."

He lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. "Eve," he starts slowly, weighing his words. "I know we've kinda been partners in crime and we have our secrets, but this— Evelyn, I'm afraid this is a secret that we can't keep."

It's not like the time he took me to Walmart and we snuck around the aisles, exchanging crayons from boxes until I had a box full of black crayons.

It can't be compared to the time he secretly took me to a movie Gerard said he'd take me to, just so I'd get to see it twice.

This just isn't the same as sneaking off to get pizza at midnight, or pulling off April fools pranks, or convincing Gerard to let me skip school to come to shows.

My closed fist hovers over his open palm for a few seconds. The glint of the blade and horizontal lines that appear on my skin I see when I close my eyes tempts me not to let it go. But then, I open my hand. Frank catches it and closes his own hand around it.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

I say nothing, but a few tears slip down my face.

The only sound in the room is our breathing and the usual muffled street-sounds coming from outside. I don't know when Gerard and Lindsey are supposed to be back, but I dread to hear the sound of the car pulling in, the wheels crunching in the gravel, and the doors opening and closing.

Frank breaks the silence first. "When'd you start doing this to yourself, Evie?" he asks carefully.

"March first," I say, barely moving my lips.

My skin crawls as I feel his eyes scan up and down my arms, taking in every little cut and scar, and the not-so-little ones. I won't meet his eyes with tears still steadily dripping from mine, soundless. The damage I've managed to do to myself in just over three weeks is borderline impressive in a way, mostly considering I was doing it right under everyone's nose.

He's turning it over in his hands.

Something clicks in my brain when my eyes flit down to the shining metal object in his palm. My hand flies up— I couldn't hold it back if I tried— and I make a grab for it. Despite the complete lack of thought and consideration put into this act, I'm not quick enough, because he closes his hand and moves it out of the way in one swift movement.

It angers me.

"I change my mind, I need it!" I yell. He's jumped up off the floor and I copy his actions, making another grab for his hand which he's holding over his head.

My head is spinning, trying to find a solution because the one constant lifeline I have has been taken away.

"You don't need it, Eve. You did the right thing by giving it to me." His voice is too calm for the situation at hand. It's infuriating. I feel like I'm not being listened to, like the intense feelings pulsing through my veins aren't being acknowledged.

"I don't give a fuck about doing the right thing, give it back!"

Her voice is bordering the edge of hysterical. Tears are streaming down her face. She's panicking. "I need it Frankie, p-please. Just give it back, I'm fine, it's just that I neeeed it!"

"You're not fine, Eve. You gotta calm down for me, okay?"

She's grabbing wildly at my hand to get the blade back. Obviously, there's no way in Hell I'll let her have it. Just as I think I'll have to hold her down, or something, she collapses onto her knees, sobbing.

"I- I just— I dunno what to d-do anymore, Frankie. I just k-keep— I just keep messing up, disappointing everyone, n' myself. I-I want it all to s-stop." She hugs her knees to her chest and hides her face in them.

In the middle of her bedroom floor, I sit next to her and put an arm around her. I've shoved the blade deep into my pocket to dispose of later. "Hurting yourself isn't gonna make anything better, you know that," I say quietly.

She shifts so that she's crying into my shoulder and I let her for as long as it takes for her to calm down and breathe easy again. When she didn't answer her phone when I called her to let her know I'd be late, I knew something was wrong and I wasted no time in barging into the house as soon as I got here. It scares me to think about what could've happened if I hadn't walked in at that moment. What further damage she could've done to herself.

She could've killed herself.

The first thing she says when she's no longer in hysterics is, "I'm sorry." Her voice sounds so small and broken.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner. I'm the dumbass that locked my keys in the car. But, look, you don't have to be sorry, you just have to talk to your dad, okay? He won't be mad at you, I promise. And then you can work on getting better."

When she finally looks me dead in the eye, she doesn't look like a sixteen year old. Or, at least, not like the sixteen year old girl I'm used to. No trace of innocence is left on her face. Instead, in the circles under her pained, dark eyes, and in the tear tracks on her face, I can see everything she's gone through. Everything she's too young to have gone through.

And in every cut she left on her skin I can do more than see it. I can feel it.

"It doesn't matter anymore. I'll be gone tomorrow."

I blink, my eyes stinging a little, but I refuse to cry in front of her. I'm the one who has to stay strong right now, no matter how fucking much I'll miss her. Truthfully, I already have cried and Jamia is the strong one.

"That doesn't mean he won't keep caring about you."

"No, he'll forget about me. You all will. You'll get on with your lives and it'll be like I was never here."

"You can't seriously believe that, Eve. We're never gonna forget about you, and as soon as you turn eighteen, you can come right back here, you know?"

She leans up against my shoulder again and nods. "I know, but that's in like two years. And it's just— she won. That's the worst part, just the fact that she won and gets to take me back with her and- and I get that stupid last name. Barry."

"You know, I didn't even know that was your old last name until all this," I say truthfully.

"There's a lot you still don't know about me."

I was never going to ask her about her past. It wasn't my place, and I didn't want to risk bringing up terrible memories she may've been repressing for years. But here, on the floor with my arm still around her, she told me everything. From the details she knew about her biological family and what it was like living with her mother, to everything she endured as a foster kid. Her tears stopped, her voice was dark, and my blood ran cold.

It was a story she can't have recounted to many people. Maybe not even Gerard knew it all from beginning to end. I know if it was my story I wouldn't want to revisit it, either.

She didn't stop until we heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening and closing and Gerard calling out, "We're home!"