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in
him is something I will never do. Noah's now in the same category and after our
conversation this morning, I'm going to have to distance myself from him
permanently.
    Instead of
heading towards my bedroom, I head straight for the bathroom and lock the door
in case Noah is in fact home, though I hadn't seen him as I'd walked through
the house. It's probably stupid to cut myself without knowing where he is but
at the moment, I don't really care.
    I need to
feel the coolness of the blade against my fingertips. The feel of the metal is
always soothing to me before I feel the rush...and then eventually the pain. My
hands shake slightly as I open the bathroom closet door and grab my box of
tampons on the second shelf that is designated as mine. I dig around in the box
but I can't find the razor. With a frown, I push around the tampons and peer
inside the box, but it's not there.
    “That's
impossible,” I mutter as I dump the tampons on the bathroom counter and rummage
through them.
    My little
razor is gone.
    For a long
second, I stare at the tampons before I feel panic beginning to form. I rush
back to the closet and dig out the empty deodorant container where I had hidden
a second razor for back-up.
    Empty.
    “No!” I cry
with frustration.
    My knife. My
pocket knife was in my night stand drawer.
    I leave the mess
scattered across the bathroom counter top as I fumble with the lock on the
bathroom door before jerking it open and rushing to my bedroom. I hurry to my
nightstand and quickly open the drawer, digging frantically through the
contents.
    My pocket
knife is gone as well.
    My heart
thunders in my chest. This can't be happening! Not now, when I need the
pain. I spin around—intent on going downstairs to the kitchen for a paring
knife but come up short when I find Noah standing in the doorway of my room.
    His brown
eyes are troubled as he stares at my face intently. “That right there, that
expression on your face confirms exactly what I feared. I was concerned over
the way you reacted this morning when I confronted you. I decided to do a
little searching and I found your razor blades and knife.”
    It finally
sinks in that he really does know the truth. My cheeks burn as shame and
humiliation seep through me before anger rears its ugly head. “You had no right
to go through my things!”
    “I wasn't
trying to invade your privacy, I'm trying to help.”
    “I don't
need or want your help!”
    Noah enters
the room and walks toward me. “Blayre, you put a blade to your skin and cut.
You need help whether you realize it or not.”
    “Stay away
from me!” I warn, my voice slightly shrill by this unexpected confrontation. I
back away from him and put several feet between us before I cross my arms over
my chest. “Did you tell Tate?” I demand bitterly.
    “No,” he
says calmly as he watches me. “I wanted to talk with you first.”
    “You can't
tell him!”
    “He needs to
know,” Noah says in a heavy voice, his eyes alert to my every move.
    “I'm not
doing anything wrong!” I say flatly. “It's a coping mechanism, like your damned
smoking that I don't give you shit about. What I do is nobody's business.”
    “If you feel
you're not doing anything wrong, then why can't I tell Tate?” he challenges.
    “Like I
said, it's nobody's business, least of all yours.”
    “It is my
business and it is also Tate's. We care about you—”
    “Well, you
shouldn't!” I yell as I cut him off.
    His face
goes hard with sudden anger and he actually takes a step toward me. “Who the
fuck has messed with you?”
    I can't do
this. I turn and move to walk past him but his hands settle on my shoulders
before I can dodge him. He gently backs me up against my dresser, his body
close to mine as he gazes down at me. “I'm not walking away from you. Nothing you say will make me look at you differently than how I've always seen you. Talk to me,” he urges as concern darkens his face.
    “Get out.”
    “No.”
    I look away
with