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(months earlier)

“Pain is a gift,” Mom whispered.

There was a ringing in my ears; my face burned like someone had just smacked me. But it was only her words that stung. She was going on and on—about how we were leaving Dad, about how we were moving to St. Louis, and how we were going to leave everything behind to start over, just the two of us.

I felt sick.

We were sitting by the overgrown pool at our house in Little Rock. I tried to focus on the ripples in the water, but the wind was kicking up and my eyes were getting wet.

“Things will get better, Erica,” she told me, trying to make it hurt less. I didn’t believe her.

“It’s not your fault,” she said, but I knew somehow it probably was. It’s been my fault a lot lately.

I leaned over the edge of the pool until I dropped straight into the deep end. I didn’t care that I was wearing clothes. I let myself sink to the bottom and watched the surface bob and weave. I could see Mom up there, distorted and all bent out of shape. She was yelling at me until Dad came out. They started fighting again.

Fuck ’em. The water was freezing, but I could stay down here forever. The cold stung for a few seconds, then I felt the pain slowly floating floating away. Who needed it? The numbness came and it felt good to be underwater where everything was blue and quiet and I didn’t have to feel anything anymore . . .

If pain was a gift, then it sucked ass.