Kill Switch by Penelope Douglas

“The scars on your body…” she said quietly. “Your scalp,
under your arm, your groin. Places people don’t see.”
I stroked her arm with my thumb as I held her, already
knowing where she was going with it. I stopped cutting when I
was fifteen. The night my mother left.
But some of the marks never truly healed. It was a good
thing I was smart about where I did it, so my clothes always
covered it.
“I had a classmate in Montreal who had scars like that,”
she went on, “but she didn’t bother to hide it. It was
everywhere. She had to leave and go to a hospital.”
I stroked her arm still, my breathing even and calm.
“Where were you for two years?” she asked.
“Not in a hospital.”
I knew what she suspected, but this was all so much more
complicated than she knew. Not everyone needed help to stop
hurting themselves. Some of us just traded in one coping
mechanism for another.
She didn’t see me for two years, because Damon was
trying to stay away. And then he was at college.
“Someone taught me a long time ago that pain releases
pain,” I explained. “So when I was younger, I cut, poked,
scratched, and burned myself, so I wouldn’t feel everything
that hurt. And then I realized, it felt even better to hurt
everyone else.”
“But not me?”
She had a teasing tone, but if she only knew. None of this
was a joke.
I smirked anyway. “I did some damage.”
She just didn’t know how much yet.
“Don’t make me answer questions,” I told her. “You won’t
like the answers.”
“But I need them.” She turned her face up to me.