“What’s the meaning of this?” I ask in a voice I don’t recognize. “Fucking look at me, Brandon!” He slowly raises his head, his lips trembling. “You cut yourself?” My words are low, but they’re so loud in the silence. “Why?” “Because I’m fucked up.” His voice sounds like death’s lullaby, anguished and shattered. “Because I look at myself in the mirror and get the urge to shatter it to pieces. Because I’ve been haunted by the bitter taste of nausea and self-loathing for so long, I don’t know how to live without them. I was doing fine, pretending and putting on a façade, so why the fuck did you
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