Blood blinds one eye, throwing off my depth perception. I struggle to get the key in the lock.
I call Captain into my room, lock the door, and head to the bathroom to assess the damage. There’s a cut beneath my eyebrow from where the bottle hit and it’s gushing pretty bad. Probably needs stitches. Will definitely leave a scar. It’s swelling right before my eyes. Then I dig through my dark hair until I find the source of most of the blood that’s ruined my shirt. There’s a small gash from the cabinet and it’s bleeding almost as much as my eyebrow. Fucking head wounds. And my damn lip again. I spit blood into the sink. He’s never gone for my face before—he never went for Mom’s either. Too afraid of people asking what happened. Fucking Coach just had to tell him I was in a fight. What better news is there when you want to beat the shit out of your son without anyone questioning the damage?
I wet a small towel, trying to clean off some of the blood. Then I pull out my butterfly bandages—when you live with someone like my dad, you’re prepared—and I butterfly the cut just beneath my right eyebrow. I’m not sure how to deal with my head, so I hold the towel on it so I don’t keep bleeding everywhere.
I pull out the metal box and sit heavily on my bed. I feel my pulse in my skull as I spread all the pictures of Mom out in front of me.
“Did you or did you not leave a note?” I ask her.
There was so much blood when I found her. After I called 911, I held her naked, wet body and I sat there on the bathroom floor. There was nothing on the counter. Her clothes had been put neatly away because she knew she wouldn’t be needing them ever again. The counter was immaculate. The entire house was immaculate, like she didn’t want to leave a mess. The only thing in the bathroom besides all her blood was the little plastic box of razors.
But there wasn’t a note.
I try to remember every detail of her room. Maybe I overlooked a note somewhere in there. But all I recall is that it was uncharacteristically spotless. If he found a note and has kept it from me all this time . . .
I pick up the photo of her going to school and another memory comes flooding back.
When she got home that day, Dad decided he didn’t like her new holier-than-thou college attitude. He beat her so badly, I thought about stealing his car and trying to drive her to the hospital even though I didn’t know how to drive.
It was Mom who stopped me from calling 911. She told me they’d take me away from her and she’d die if she didn’t have me. Then, after Dad left to drink himself stupid, she had me help her to her bathroom, where she talked me through cleaning her wounds and the art of the butterfly bandage.
The prick gave her a concussion, slamming the back of her head into the wall repeatedly. She had severe bruising on her stomach and back and a broken rib or two, I’m pretty sure, though she never confirmed that with an X-ray. And her arms were black and blue with his handprints from where he held her as he slammed her into the wall and then threw her down the stairs into the family room.
He might have killed her if I hadn’t stepped in. I got off with several very sore bruises on my back where I shielded her from him, but none of that mattered as long as I kept him from killing her.
She didn’t want to involve any authorities. She was protecting him.
“Look what good that did. You left me here with him. Alone. You selfish bitch.” I scream at her smiling face before crumpling the photo in my hand and dropping the towel from my head. It’s now more red than blue.
I take the razor blade between my thumb and fingers and let it catch the light. Then I turn my wrist over and remember the deep gashes that went up each forearm.
They say it doesn’t hurt. That you lose so much blood so fast that you sort of just fall asleep. That doesn’t sound so bad.
The pulsing in my head has pretty much stopped. I go to examine the gash again. It’s not bleeding too much anymore. And since my hair is dark and thick, it’s mostly just a sticky matted mess on my head. So I get in the shower.
I let the water run hot, then I sit in the tub and allow it to wash over me—I’m too tired to stand. The cuts scream their anger, but I don’t flinch. After the water runs clear again I reach to the edge of the tub, where my mom’s razor-sharp friend now sits.
I pick up the small silver rectangle and turn my wrist over again. I drag the blade over my skin without pressing down. Even this draws blood. And it stings. I place it on my wrist again. All I have to do is press down and it will all end.
But I can’t.
I throw the razor across the bathroom and cry in silence until the water runs cold.
SEVENTEEN