Luke walked away in sixteen steps. Eight perfectly-tied-shoelace steps. And eight not. It’s not the laces, not really. They were just a catalyst, a microscope through which I could see all the broken parts of me. Why can’t I be normal? Why can’t I think the way normal people do? I so desperately would have liked to have him as a friend.
I squeeze the scissors in my hand, remember the first time I sat here, almost three years ago. The first cut I ever made came from the fear of taking a physics exam. I’d already left Cardinal by then, had started homeschooling with Mom.
Most kids who enter an exam room are freaking out about failing, but not me. I wasn’t afraid of that. Failing didn’t even enter my head. The fear came from the intensity of it all. I kept imagining sitting still, under strict conditions, not being able to move, not being able to come and go as I needed to.
I mentally shackled myself to a chair.
And then the what-ifs started. What if this happened? What if that happened? What if? What if? What if? Too many questions that I couldn’t answer. I just wanted silence.
It’s weird, the release I get from dragging the tiny metal arm across my skin. It’s like slamming on brakes for an emergency stop; my head will go dead the second I feel the blade bite into me. All the buzzing receptors in my brain will forget the panic and concentrate on registering the hurt, the blood. It’s drastic, a last resort. But so easy. Like breathing, blinking. One beat in time. One quick slice, where nobody can see, and it all stops. This is not about dying. This is about trying to get back some control.
My hands tremble as I lift my sweater off my legs, hitch my shorts up, and pull the skin tight on my thigh. The scars from before have faded to little silver bumps that could easily be mistaken for snail trails. I inch the blade closer to my leg, blink away a fresh batch of tears.
Despite my dangerously fragile thought pattern, OCD insists on its sick sense of loyalty to even numbers. It won’t let me make a fifth mark, so I run the blade along one of the four existing scars. A well of blood springs to the surface, and I go slack.
It works like a shake, a slap, an injection of anaesthetic. I picture it like a never-ending tug of war between panic and calm. Self-harm is an impartial observer that steps up with something sharp to sever the rope. The minute the cut is made, both teams fly back, collapse to the ground on top of one another, exhausted.
Thing is, now that it’s done, I want it to go away. I don’t want to see it or feel it or acknowledge that I needed control so badly I cut myself. But I have to, every time I stand in the shower, or my jeans rub against it, or my mom walks by my door when I’m getting changed and I jump around like a jackrabbit to cover myself.
The blood tickles as it trickles down my leg. I reach back, grab the sponge off the side of the bathtub, and press it over the cut. The panic is dead, done. Disdain has tripled in size.
I can’t win.
It’s gone dark. I open my eyes when I feel a buzzing beneath my waistband. There’s a chill on my skin that reminds me I’m lying on a cold floor, wearing shorts, and I left our air conditioner on. My mouth is a cotton mill, drier than sawdust, like I haven’t had a drop to drink in a decade. I need water.
I’m about to stand when I feel that buzzing again. I realize real quick that it’s my cell and without a second’s more delay, I snatch it up and hold it to my ear. I don’t bother checking the caller ID. Don’t need to. It could be aliens trying to sell me apocalypse insurance for all I care. I just need to hear another voice.
‘Norah?’
‘Mom.’ I’m hoarse.
‘What’s wrong with your voice? Are you crying?’
‘No. No,’ I assure her. Words are sandpaper scratching layers off my throat.
Suck it up.
I don’t want her to worry. I want her to get well and come home. I don’t reach for scissors when she’s around to talk to, don’t end up bleeding and passing out on the bathroom floor in a flood of tears. ‘I just have a bit of a sore throat.’
‘Could be allergies. Have you had the windows open?’
God. I miss my mom.
My body unfurls, and it’s a wonder my bones don’t creak. Muscles I didn’t know I had are protesting about being mashed against the ground for hours.
I hoist my butt up. Blood is glue; the sponge between my legs is stuck to my skin. I don’t peel it off because the cut will only start pouring again, and the last thing I want to do is deal with it.