As I close the journal, I stare out the window. His voice comes to me.

Bunny…I’m always going to be with you. Just be still…find your peace.

Again, his last words haunt my thoughts.

“What does that mean?” I blink back the tears and wipe them away while staring out the window.

The grounds of our estate are lush and green. Perfectly trimmed bushes surround multiple flower gardens, though we’re not allowed to pick the flowers. They’re just for show. Everything in my life is for show. Mother would go on a rampage if I picked a few to have in my room. She’d tell me to order them from the local florist and have them delivered, not pick them off the bushes and make them unbalanced.

A knock at my door is promptly followed by the devil’s entrance.

“Honor, you’re not dressed? The fundraiser is in one hour.” My mother’s voice needles my eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. “We need to show up in advance, give our support of the charity as their highest donor. We’re receiving an award this afternoon for our continued commitment.” She tuts.

I sigh, stand, and walk to my closet, where one of my mother’s staff has left a dress. I didn’t pick it out or try it on; though, I’m sure it will fit perfectly. It has long sleeves as my mother wouldn’t want anyone to see the henna I’ve added to my body. Not that she cares what’s under the designs.

In the past, my mother saw the scars, before I got too clever at hiding them. She didn’t do anything then, and she hasn’t since they started reappearing after Hannon’s death. Judi Gannon-Carmichael would rather push the skeletons into the closet and provide me with long sleeves than bring light to a situation that’s obviously harmful. The point is she doesn’t care. Never has, never will.

I pull my tank over my head and push off my yoga pants before stepping into the silk garment. The dress is black with a high neck and long sleeves. The bottom flares out from the nipped-in waist in an A-line that ends just above my knees. There is a pair of black Louis Vuittons sitting near my closet, so I slip my feet into them.

My mother offers a small smile, as if she likes the way I look, but doesn’t offer a compliment. I can’t remember the last time she complimented me on anything. Not even when I graduated college with a perfect GPA. Likely because, as with all things, perfection for a Carmichael is expected.

Mother bustles to my vanity, where she pulls out an ostentatious, black diamond necklace they purchased for me as a gift for my twenty-fifth birthday. It’s huge and hideous. Looks exactly like something my mother would wear.

“Not that one,” I say, finding my tongue against the wicked witch’s stare.

“Then which would you like? You must wear something with that neckline. It’s too simple as it is.”

“The strand of pearls.” The one my brother gave me when I graduated college just before he took his life. It’s the last thing he gave me and the one item I will cherish for the rest of my days.

Mother rolls her eyes, which, coming from her, is shameful. Showing emotion goes against the training of a tried and true blue blood. Rolling one’s eyes would be frowned upon in her familial lines.

“Always with the pearls.” She walks over to me and loops them around my neck.

I double them and allow them to hang prettily. There is one pink pearl hidden in the midst of the long strand. My brother said that was added on purpose. He wanted something unique to show me nothing in life is perfect and to remind me that being different is the same as being as pretty and lovely as a single pink pearl.

With my brother’s pearls around my neck, I feel a bit more at ease. “What is this charity?”

“As if you care,” Mother scoffs.

I frown, realizing that I don’t usually care. I go to these events because I’m told to, forced there by my family and our obligations. It’s high time I actually participate. As Dr. Hart says, be present in the day-to-day. Find things that give me joy in each day, and it will be easier to feel as though I’m taking charge.

“I would like to know.” I clear my voice and stand taller.

Mother grabs a ring she deems appropriate for my outfit, along with a handbag, and brings them both over to me. I hold out my first finger, where she slides on a large, black, oval-shaped ring made of real onyx. It’s my favorite ring, and for a brief moment, I wonder if she chose it because she knows I favor it.

Mother ushers me to the chair near my mirror. I sit properly and cross my legs as she grabs the hairbrush and pulls my hair into a complicated series of twists. She then plucks one bobby pin after another from the gilded box I have and pushes them into my hair. Each pin scrapes painfully along my scalp, but I don’t so much as grimace. Mother would hate that. If she takes the time to do my hair, I must sit still and accept what she considers a form of affection. It feels more like torture, but I’d never admit to it. Not since the day she spanked me black and blue with the metal handle of the brush when I was ten. Never again did I cross her when she had a mind for something.

While she finishes my hair, I silently put on my concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes, sweep on a little eyeshadow, blush, and mascara until my mother tips her chin in approval. I gloss my lips with a pink sheen and glance at my appearance.

In the mirror is the same sullen girl I saw the other night, only this one is prettier, wearing a mask to hide the sadness for another day while her parents give money to charity.

“You’ll appreciate this event, Honor. It’s for the Suicide Awareness Foundation of California. Our last donation of five million dollars funded a new suicide hotline to be opened in the Bay Area. I thought you might like that.”

My mouth is dry when I try to speak, emotion clouding the words I want to say. “That’s…really wonderful, Mother. I love it. Hannon would love it.” Tears fill my eyes, and I sniff them back.

“Oh, pish posh. Don’t mess up your makeup. You’re finally starting to look alive. Besides, don’t think too much of it. We have to be mindful of the scandal your brother left us with. Our PR specialist said this was the best way to do that.”

PR specialist.

Scandal.

A renewed sense of loss collides with my stomach like being punched. “You’re donating to charity as a PR spin on Hannon’s death?” I gasp and swallow down the bile lurching up my throat.

Mother, oblivious to the torment I’m experiencing inside, carries on with her plan as if she’s done and said nothing wrong.

“What kind of monster does this?” I gasp.

She turns on her perfect Jimmy Choos and narrows her gaze before storming to my side. She swings her hand back and then forward. She slaps me. Hard.

A blast of heat blazes across my cheek. I hold the tender side of my face as her ire burns against my palm.

“Don’t you ever talk to me like that again. I raised you better. Now, freshen up. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes. I want you nothing but smiles as we give the society pages a photo opportunity that will leave all that your brother brought down on us behind us for good. You don’t know this, but your father is planning to run for office.”

“What!?” I blurt once again, not being the lady she expects me to be. I stand up quickly, making sure I’m not in striking range. It’s been a while since my mother put her hands on me but not so long that I’ve forgotten how to run.

My mother flattens her hand over her hair and then down her skirt, making sure everything is in place. “Your father’s going to announce in the coming weeks that he’s running for governor of California. Get that hack of a liberal Democrat out of office and back on his farm in the Valley. Let a real politician take care of the state from now on.”

Oh no. Poor California. Maybe I should move. Once the idea forms, a seed is planted. I only hope I have the power to go through with it.

“Now, grab your shawl and bag. It’s time to give some money to some suicidal losers.” She straightens her shoulders and marches out of my room.

Suicidal losers.

Hannon.

I close my eyes and send him love and all the good and kindness I have left in me. “I love you, Hannon,” I whisper.

“I’ll always love you, Honor.” I imagine his voice in my head as I grab my things and follow my family to an event where they will be honored for being generous, when in reality they are just politicking and using their dead son to do it.

I make it as far as the meal before I’m rushing to the ladies’ room, where I vomit up the rubbery chicken and the two glasses of champagne I was able to force down during my parents’ award acceptance.

---

“Hello, Dr. Hart.” I enter and sit down in my usual spot across from her leather chair.

“You can call me Monet, you know. I’ve told you that every time you’ve come over the last two months.”

“Okay. Thank you, Monet.”

My doctor smiles, and I can’t help but think how genuinely beautiful she is. Makes me wonder how a rich woman can be so happy. In my experience, people with money are all unhappy. I glance over at her desk. On the corner is a picture of a handsome, blond-haired, blue-eyed hunk holding a little Asian girl with her mother’s coloring on his shoulders. Ah, that’s why. Sexy husband would do it.

“Is that your husband and daughter?”

Dr. Hart’s gaze goes to the picture on her desk. “Yes.”

“They look happy.” I grab a lock of my hair and pick at the split ends.

“We are. Are you happy, Honor?” She asks the loaded question, and I finally decide that if I’m not going to tell her everything, there’s no reason to come.

“No. I haven’t been happy in a long time. More than that, I don’t know if there was a time when I was truly happy. When Hannon was alive, I found moments of joy, but only if we were alone. Now I have nothing.”

“Okay, let’s start there. What do you like to do?”

I shrug. “I don’t do anything. All of my time is spent hiding in my room, going to Mother’s charity functions when she tells me to, or reading.”

“You like to read?” She picks up on the one thing I actually consider my own.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d rather live inside of a book than live in real life.”

Dr. Hart’s nose crinkles, and she tilts her head. “May I ask you a very serious question? One that may be hard to answer, but I need an answer and hope I’ve earned an honest reply. You know I can’t help you unless you’re honest with me.”

My palms start to sweat, and I clench my teeth. She knows. I don’t know how she knows, but she does. I can see it in her black eyes. The depth to which she sees inside me is startling. I fidget in my seat and think about what her question could be and how I want to answer it. Again, I have to remind myself I’m here for a reason. She’s not going to lock me up in some insane asylum against my will. She may have the power to do so, but for some reason, I trust her. Trust her to guard my secrets.

“Ask me.” I swallow and wait.

Monet taps her pen against her legal pad and stares at me. Her eyes seem calculating, deducing the truth she’s seeking to confirm.

“Have you ever tried to harm yourself?”

My gut reaction is to lie.

No one is going to help you unless you help yourself. Hannon’s words from the first time he caught me cutting rush back to the surface, giving me strength. My head is a two-ton weight when I give an affirmative nod.

“How?”

With that simple request, there is no judgment, no accusation, just a simple question that deserves an honest answer. But can I tell her? The only person who knew was Hannon, and when he found out, I stopped. For a while. I didn’t need to hurt myself all the time. Sometimes but not all the time.

Tell her, Honor.

Hannon’s voice slams into my consciousness as if he’s right here, urging me, holding my hand while I war with the decision to bare all. Admitting my sins is one thing. Showing them is another.

“Honor, I’m not here to judge you. I’m your doctor. I’m here to help you deal with Hannon’s death and the sadness I see in your eyes every time you enter that door.” She points at the entrance to her office. “I’m here for you. Only you. You have the power to share as much or as little as you want. Though, I’m asking you to share with me. To trust in me. I’m not going to hurt you more than you already have been. I can promise you that.”

“Oh, I know you won’t.” The snide comment slips from my lips. “No one can hurt me as much as I hurt myself.”

Right then, something in me just cracks. The ooze of pity and my own self-loathing spill out as I unbutton my cardigan and pull it off my arms. Then I rest my hands palms up on top of my knees so she can see the henna covering my sins. Tremors wrack my frame as I sit there and wait for her to see through the intricate swirls, down to the disgusting evidence hidden beneath.

Dr. Hart stands up, places her legal pad on her chair, and sits next to me on the couch. She grips my hand. “May I?”

I nod, not capable of saying anything as she lifts my arm and pulls it into her lap. She runs the tips of her fingers over the art until she feels the raised areas of skin. She traces a finger from left to right along each line. About twelve or so on this arm, fewer on my right. Sometimes I just open an old one so I don’t have to hide another one.

“Why the henna?” Her voice is gentle, like a soft breeze on a sunny day. There is no judgment or harsh accusation. Nothing but solidarity, genuine concern, and something else I can’t decipher.

I wipe away the tears that have fallen unchecked down my cheeks. All I do is cry anymore. When am I going to stop crying?

Be still…find your peace.

My brother’s words weave through this revelation, and I close my eyes to find my voice. “The ink covers the sins.”

Dr. Hart pets my arm as she would a child. Lovingly. “I understand hiding scars. I’ve been in a situation in my past that I wasn’t proud of and felt the need to cover them. But some of these are new, Honor. Recent.” Her dark, questioning gaze meets mine.

“Yeah,” I admit. “Sometimes it gets too hard.”

“What does? What gets too hard?” She holds my hand, and I grip hers tightly, not wanting to let go. It’s as if she’s the only lifeline I have right now.

I close my eyes and let go. Let her in. “The nothing.”

“Explain what the nothing is so I can understand better.”

“I’m nothing. My life is nothing. Without Hannon, I have nothing.”

My first expectation was that Dr. Hart was going to contradict what I said. Alas, she’s smarter than the average doctor. I’ve been to therapy before. Well-intentioned counselors who supposedly had my best interests at heart. My mother hired a horde of them to come to the house and speak to me regularly because I never fit in. Never followed normal society rules or the mandated conduct of a blue blood Carmichael. I’ve been found lacking my entire life. The only person who ever made me feel special, made me feel anything, was my twin brother. And he destroyed that when he ended his life.

“Honor…why do you cut yourself?” Dr. Hart asks the million-dollar question. The one I wouldn’t even admit to Hannon when he asked all those years ago.

Why do I do what I do?

This is my last-ditch effort at finding the peace Hannon spoke of. I look up from my lap and trace one of the bigger cuts across my inner forearm. “I need the pain.”

Dr. Hart pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “Why do you need the pain?”

Once more, I close my eyes and think back to the other day when I pierced my flesh with the newest cut. My mother had told me she was going to introduce me to a man, a business associate of my father’s. One with a long history of good standing with the one percenters and a family name that preceded him. She said if I was worth anything to our family, I’d go out with him and let him woo me, eventually marry me, and combine our families. For the greater good of the Carmichaels, she’d said. After she forced me to agree to an assigned date in the future when the man was available, I’d gone straight to my room and dug deep into my skin. The rush of endorphins skittered along every nerve ending, carrying me into a state of tragic bliss.

“I need the pain.” I mumble again, tracing the scar of that particular transgression.

“Why, Honor? Tell me. Trust me. You’ve gotten this far. I can help you, but only if I understand.” Her words are a plea for me to give in. To believe. And I do believe that this woman, with her kind eyes, small pregnant belly, happy family, and designer clothes, in her swank downtown San Francisco office, genuinely wants to help me. I just don’t understand it. No one ever wants to help me. Truly see things from my eyes.

“Why do you help people?” I ask her in return.

She leans back, places her arm on the back of the couch, and toys with a loose thread on her couch. “Because I know what it feels like to be alone. To have very little hope for a good life. I want to change that for people who are lost.”

“For people like me?”

“Are you lost?” She uses her MD Kung Fu to boomerang that back on me.

“I think so.”

“Why?” Again with the whys.

I shake my head hopelessly. “Because I don’t know who I am. I have no clue what I want from life. I have nothing tethering me to this world.”

Dr. Hart places her hand on top of mine and squeezes. “Do you want me to help you figure those things out?”

I’m stunned silent by her response. In my twenty-six years on this earth, no one, not even Hannon, has ever offered to help in such a way. It may be her training, her innate knack for dealing with broken people, or perhaps she sees something in me that she wants to fix. Whatever it is, the question spurs the same reaction as throwing a raft into shark-infested waters where I’m barely treading water. It gives me hope.

I lick my dry lips and focus on her face. A small smattering of freckles are splayed across her nose like a fine dusting of glitter. Her eyes are black as night but sparkling with the light of the stars. Her cheeks are high on her wide face, and her black hair tumbles around her golden-colored skin, making her a striking beauty. I can see how she’s captured the eye of the blond superhunk.

“Do you want me to help you find out what you like and who you are, Honor?” she asks again.

“Yes.” The word slips from my lips as if it’s a prayer, and maybe it is. Where I’m at now, Dr. Hart may surely be my savior.

“To do that, I’m going to need you to be honest with me and tell me why you need the pain.”

Without thinking, I blurt out my secret, allowing it to coat this session with its hideous stain. “It’s the only way I can feel anything. At least when I’m hurting myself, I can feel something.”

Dr. Hart pats my hand and squeezes it. “Okay. Now that I can work with.”