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trembling hand through my hair, and when I pull my hand back, blood is seeping down my arm. My lips turn down as I stare at my arm in disgust.
    I’m so fucking pathetic.
    Reaching into the glove compartment, I pull out a few napkins, take off my cuff, and wipe my arm. Tears well up in my eyes and blur my vision. I’m cracking. I know it. I thought I could control this, but I can’t. I close my eyes and huff out a breath as I pinch my leg to stop my self-hatred from surfacing and dragging me down.
    After I pull into the parking spot, I gather the bloody napkins and shove them into the glove box. Then, I put my cuff back on and get out of my car. Throwing my book bag over my shoulder and tucking my purse next to it, I rush into the building and to my class.
    When I open the door, the classroom grows quiet, and Professor Wilson stops talking in what seems to be mid-sentence. My gut is a twisted mess because I hate fucking up. I smile in apology and start to make my way to my desk.
    “Is there a reason you’re late to my class, Savannah?” he asks with pursed lips.
    I freeze on the spot, and all the blood drains from my face.
    Savannah.
    His voice floods my head, and memories bombard my mind.
    You’re my Savannah.
    Savannah, you’re mine, and don’t you forget it.
    God, can’t you do anything right, Savannah?
    I need to run. I need to escape the memories and the emotions that are clogging my throat and squeezing my chest.
    “Are you okay?” Professor Wilson asks as I stare at him with wide eyes.
    His brow furrows, and then he opens his mouth to speak, but I turn and bolt out of the room. I’m sure I look like a total fucking nutcase as I’m sprinting through the halls and then the parking lot with my backpack smacking my back. The thud on my spine isn’t hard enough. My heart is racing, and tears are spilling from my eyes. I start to rub my wrist as I run, but it’s only an echo of what I need.
    My Savannah.
    Jesus Christ, you’re fucking useless, Savannah.
    Panic crawls up my throat, and I choke out a sob as I finally make it to my car. After closing the door, I reach into my purse and pull out my box cutter. Tears stream down my face. Anxiousness is rocking through my body, making me shake. I take off my cuff, and I don’t even stop to watch the blade engage. I just slide it up, and I drag the blade across my skin. I am desperate to escape, to get the fuck out of my head, but the relief doesn’t come. I blink back tears and gawk at my wrist. The blood pools up, and the sting registers, but it’s still there—the words, the memories, the fact that I’m a lousy piece of shit. I make another cut, praying it’ll work this time.
    It doesn’t.
    Why are you so fucking stupid, Savannah?
    I make another one and another one.
    It’s not helping. Blood drips down my arm as I shake, and my stomach rolls with nausea.
    Fuck, I’m gonna throw up .
    I open the door and lose my breakfast on the pavement. I’m still trembling, but once the nausea passes, I lock myself back in my car and stare at my bleeding wrists. I tremble as I sob, and my chest heaves. I’m such a worthless excuse for a person. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat as I crack and fall apart. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I keep my shit together? I put my face in my hands and wail into them, letting the grief overtake me.
    I don’t know how long I sit there and cry, but by the time I pull myself together enough to see straight, the blood has dried on my skin, and my eyes hurt. Tears are still falling from my eyes, but they’re slowing down now. Taking a deep breath, I take the cuff off my other arm, and I bring my wrists together, so I can stare at what I’ve become.
    My eyes widen, and it feels as if the Earth is shifting as understanding dawns on me. This really is my drug, and I’ve hit rock bottom.
    Fuck, what have I become?
    I hastily flip down my visor and look at myself in the mirror. My throat tightens when I