Therapy Read Online Free PDF Page A

anyone.”
    He looks me square in the eyes. His stare is heavy, and my breath hitches under the weight of it.
    “I don’t give a damn what people at school think about me, Jessica. High school isn’t the be-all-end-all of my life. All I care about right now is that I helped you, did the right thing, and made sure you were okay. Everything else is irrelevant,” he says, pushing back off of my car.
    He puts his hands on his hips and looks at me. I need to say something, but what? Anything I say is inane and trivial compared to what he did for me here tonight.
    “Thank you, Jace,” is all I can muster before rolling up my window.
    He lifts his hand, giving me a slight wave as I pull out onto the road. My mind is racing, and for some reason the pain seems to be a second thought to all of the others plowing through my mind. No one has ever helped me like that, cared about my feelings, or acted like I truly mattered. I look in my rearview mirror, seeing lights blinking on and off. It’s Jace.
    I wonder what he wants now.
    I pull over and watch as he opens the door of his F150 and jumps out, walking toward me. I roll down the window and he hands me a receipt.
    “Here’s my cell number. You can call or text anytime if you need anything, or if something like this ever happens again and I’m not around. Okay?”
    I look at the wrinkled receipt that has his number scrawled across it, and then back at him. He must see my obvious confusion and surprise because he steps in closer to my car.
    “It’s fine. You really can call me if you ever need anything.” He gives me a genuine smile, then backs up and heads to his truck.
    His loud truck roars as he passes by and I just sit here, stunned. Is the star quarterback of the school my friend now? Is that even possible? Why? Why would he want to be my friend and could I even do that?
    I’ve never been just friends with a guy before. I don’t even know how to connect with a guy without having a physical relationship with him. I pull into my driveway, hoping that Mom and Dad are in bed, though I doubt they’ll even notice my scratched face or bloody knees if they are awake. They hardly ever look at me, and when they do they don’t really see me.
    The house is quiet and dark as I make my way to my room. I shut and lock my door before I peel off my dirty clothes. I drop them into my laundry basket and look in the mirror, examining the damage from the fight.
    My cheek is slightly swollen, my lip is busted, my earlobe is throbbing, and I have a few scratches on my face from the rocky ground. My knees are all scraped up, and my ribs are already starting to bruise. The bandage covering the cuts on my lower stomach has peeled nearly all the way off, and the wounds have dirt matted into them now. Thank goodness my room has an adjoining bathroom.
    I go in and turn on the shower, knowing that the agony of washing my scraped and bruised body is going to be its own form of torture. I step out of my underwear, feeling the pain radiate through my sides as I stretch my arms back to unhook my bra.
    I step into the water, turning it up as hot as I can tolerate it. It scalds my skin and I welcome the burn; the thin line between pain and pleasure always sits just beneath the surface for me. My instincts war with my desires and I fight to keep my body under the burning hot water plummeting down onto it. I feel the stinging pain skittering across my flesh and I lean forward, placing my hands on the shower wall as the torrid water washes away the dirt and blood.
    The scars from years of cutting tingle and come alive, so well hidden from anyone, regardless of my attire. Being on the swim team has left me with very few places that can be concealed.
    Too much pain that time will never erase bleeds through my mind, flooding my memories, reminding me that no matter how clean I am, the grime and disgust will always remain within.

    Wrapping a towel around myself, I grab an old vintage Mötley Crüe T-shirt