It consumes you. Even after you put it down and just stare at it, the light reflecting off of the blade. The blood drying on the blade. But it's no longer an unusual occurrence for me, I'm used to it now. It didn't used to be this way; I used to have an amazing body. Perfect, a little pale, but scar less. Now I'll never be able to wear shorts or a bikini. I'm surprised I can even wear short sleeves, not that I often do. The worst ones are the jagged, diagonal line at the bottom of my thigh, and when I carved 'Loveless' into my thigh. I don't think they'll ever go away. But it's not like it matters; no one will ever love me enough to want to see my thigh. Hell, no one will love me period.
Your mom is supposed to love you, because you're her kid. My mom loves the bottle more than she loves me. Well, maybe that's a lie. She loves the full bottle more than she loves me. When it's about empty, then it's the same. I pick up those empty bottles and throw them away, each one breaking the spirit I once had. Each one flawing my once porcelain skin. Each one making the cuts a little longer, a tad bit deeper. And my dad's not even around to notice it. He left with the army. I love him, I do, but I think, the more I think about it, the more I resent him. I want him here, helping me. I'm too selfish to want him in Kabul, or Iraq, Iran, or anywhere that isn't Toronto. He's my dad, I need him. Who knows if he'll ever stay long enough to see what I've turned into.
Sitting in front of the mirror I study myself. I see every single flaw, just like everyone else sees. My hair is a mess. The color is fine, but the texture is terrible. I gets rough and messy looking. It curls in random directions if I sleep on it wrong. My pores are like craters, someone who could wear a bikini could swim in them. My wrists are so thin they look like they could crack. Snap. My breasts, or lack there of, instill the idea that no boy will ever want me. And I spend so much time wondering why I'm alone.
I do this a lot. When I'm bored, or upset, or need a distraction. I sometimes do it when I don't want to cut, but then, I notice every flaw and I cut worse than I originally would have. Then I'm taking out two problems on myself, not just one. It makes no sense. I make no sense. But maybe one time, everything will turn from mud to glass and I'll see through all these problems and solve them. Never relapse again. Yea, never again will I drag this razor against my arm. Never again will my tainted thigh know the touch of the blade, or have my problems be taken out on it. I said it before, I promised myself I wouldn't. More importantly, I promised someone else I wouldn't. Because making a promise to Ellie Nash means nothing, they're empty words said out loud to see how they sound. They're not taken seriously. But that promise failed. I held onto it as long as I could though.
It was a nice idea while it lasted. I kept the rubber bands and tried the snapping over and over, but after a while, I got used to it. I had to cut, I kept the bands so no one would ask, but I just had to. With everything going on, Paige hooking up with Jesse, it's just weird. They're around the house, together, all couple-y. Awkward. Especially because I considered sleeping with him. Just, I don't know. I can't word it. I can never word it. Hence the scars. Maybe I'm just expressionally challenged. Or maybe I just don't have anyone to talk to. When I was younger, and my mom was passed out, I would sometimes talk to her. Once, when Dad was on a trip, I talked to her about Marco. Later, when Dad was back and she was sober, she said that for some reason, she didn't care about me being alone with Marco. Just a strange sense of trust, she said. After that I never talked again. I never trusted her to make me a sandwich, let alone with my most personal secrets and feelings. I hardly see her now though. She got out of rehab, that I know, and I know how little rehab did. It was probably turning the doorknob and walking into an empty house. I used to go over there every weekend, just to clean up a bit and make sure she was ok. But once I sent Craig to live with Joey, I stopped. If Craig, an 18 year old, could take care of his problem, my mother certainly could. She just doesn't want to. I have a secret, it's that every day, I feel a little bit worse about my mother. But there's nothing I can do.
Sickened by my reflection, the reflection of an abandoner, I started to pace the room. There was a draft in the room; the cold of December came through the windowpanes and into my already shaking body. My old, worn in gray sweatshirt did little to keep me warm, but did more than my black shorts. I can only do this at 2 AM, or a time like that. When no ones awake, or if they are awake, their activities aren't something that I should be involved in. I pulled my messy hair into a ponytail, and as I caught a glimpse of myself, I let my long, red hair fall around my face. I brushed it out, it looked almost perfect. I pulled it up and over, into the side ponytail I had too often as I walked through the halls of Degrassi. It seemed like so long ago, though in reality it was only half a year. Maybe it just felt like so long because it had been a while since the last time I was truly happy. The last time I wore my hair like this for a reason. It was how my hair was when I first kissed him. I swear, I'm not a stalker. Maybe he is. The next time I threw it up in my hurried run to school, he said he had to kiss me because of my hair, so on special occasions, I wore my hair like that. Just for him. After he left, if I wore my hair like that, my heart was heavy. I pulled the hair tie out and threw it across the room, then collapsed onto my bed.
Sometimes I wonder what would've been. What could've been. Sometimes, it's even what should have been. But mostly, I know that things couldn't have worked out. If they were meant to, they would have. Clearly he's over everything, Ashley told me he's back at Degrassi and I didn't even get a phone call. My cell is still the same number. But nothing. I guess he's back with Emma, poor guy. Whatev. It's not my business. He can be with little miss save the world, while I'm alone with my razor. No one would want me anyway, not after knowing what I've done to myself.
After a while I pulled myself off of my bed and ran my hand over the handle. The dim lamp reflected off of the blood stained metal as I picked it up and placed in the drawer closest to the ground. I then turned out the lamp and eventually drifted off to sleep.
---
I woke up around 11, greeted by the smell of fresh coffee. I turned my head toward the door and nearly jumped 10 feet while having a heart attack. Jesse was sitting there, reading papers, which I assumed to be for the Torch. "Do you mind telling me why you're sitting half a foot from my bed at 11 in the morning?" I asked him, trying to prove my annoyance so he would leave and be far, far away from my bare leg underneath the layers of covers.
"I was just proofing the rough drafts and noticed that someone was missing theirs. Do you have it now?"
"I'm really not in the mood to put up with you right now. Get out of my room, I'll give you it later."
"You know, you can't expect special treatment because you're Paige's friend," he said, not taking his dark eyes from the paper.
"I didn't take special treatment when I was your girlfriend, why would I take it from Paige?"
"Just give me the article today or it's not getting in the edition," he said, getting up and leaving the room. It's weird that I don't care. At all. I know I should, since journalism is my major, but the article is about the math majors, or lack there of. It's just dull, no one is going to want to read it. I don't think I'm going to turn it in. I'll just face Jesse and get some air.
---
After getting into a two second discussion with Jesse, consisting of "The article is stupid, I'm not writing it" followed by the sound of a heavy door closing, I got in my car and drove down to the Dot. Everyone is so young. The freshman keep getting shorter and shorter, while the sophomores get more and more obnoxious. I walked in, looking for any familiar face and was greeted with none. I ordered a hamburger and sat in the booth waiting for my food to be done. Yep, I gave up my vegetarianism long ago. I remember when I was 'dating' Marco and his mom would always make me a special sauce because she made the family one with beef in it. During my junior year I had my first taste of meat in a few years. Same with Sean. Maybe it was watching all those late night infomercials with chicken rotisseries and steak knives and grills. He eventually cracked one day, saying he had to have a hamburger and he was sorry that it went against something important to me. I handed him his keys and coat and led him to the Dot, where we got two hamburgers. Later I threw a fry at him for letting me be so weak, but we both know it was what I wanted. This burger doesn't taste as good, the other was amazing. Maybe it's a new chef. It tastes burnt, undercooked, anything, just not perfect. I'll eat it anyway though, I already paid.
I pulled out my laptop, well, Marco's laptop, and read my assignment. We only have class on Wednesday and Friday, so the professor posts everything online. We have to write about loss. Well, this should be pretty easy. I could do it about my mom, my dad, Sean, Ashley, Marco. Yes, as much as I hate myself for it, I thought Marco abandoned me after I stopped pretending to be his girlfriend. I know I was wrong, but it was still there. But I think I'm going to write about my first loss, my first best friend, Maisha.
We had met in the fifth grade, my last name started with N and hers with M, so we were always by each other. We were complete opposites on the outside. She was loud, saying whatever she wanted to whoever she wanted, not caring about anything. I was so shy, I barely spoke. I don't even know how we even started talking. We just got put in the same schooling group. We were home schooled, which meant that we were signed up and put into groups of around 7 people, and were taught at people's houses. Maisha was the skinniest person there; she had thick, dark brown hair and green eyes. My hair was relatively straight, red of course. Eventually we started going to each other's houses, going to the park, everything. This carried on through middle school, even though I was eventually put in a real school. She soon followed for 7th grade, where her social life took off.
Her first day there, she got a boyfriend. He just randomly asked her out, and of course, being Maisha, she said yes. This led her quest to get me a boyfriend, so we could double. She went through every guy there, some getting disqualified for qualities they had that she didn't like. Others for already having a girlfriend, and some for already liking someone. In my mind, I always wanted her to stop. I told her I didn't need a boyfriend, I was fine with just hanging out with her. But really, I was terrified that she would think less of me because no one wanted to date me. I never told her this though. Eventually she dumped him and started hanging out with these older guys, Brandon and Chico. She dated Chico and set me up with Brandon. Both relationships quickly ended. Through middle school, she dated random guys, I was the third wheel, and no one questioned it.
Then high school came. We went to Morton West for freshman year. For anyone unfamiliar with the school, I'll explain it to you. Driving up, you see the small, square, white building. Around this building you see the barbed wire fence they use to try to prevent people from ditching class. Once you're through the gate, there's cigarette butts scattered across the grass, trash everywhere but the trashcans. Through the heavy front doors, there are cops. They have dogs, to try to prevent any drugs from getting through from the outside world. More often than not, the dogs are so preoccupied with one stoner they miss fifteen others. Walking though the halls, you're greeted with the strong aroma of weed coming through the locker doors. During classes there's locker checks and passes being written to the students to come down. This is what a low budget school is like.
Maisha and I stuck together whenever we could. We hung out with the same people, which probably led to our downfall. Cleary, there wasn't the best student population at the school. We started hanging out with a guy we renamed Frankie. Frankie was a good guy, he just made some bad choices. Well, we made the bad choices with him. One day he came up to us at lunch, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Guess what," he said. "I found a joint," he finished, giving us .02 seconds to answer. He pulled it out, carefully looking over his shoulder and all around us. Later that day we smoked it, it was my first and last joint. From then on, Frankie smoked all the time. Maisha would only do it when we were with him, and I pretended to. Then came the drinking.
Maisha and I were at my house, sitting on my bed, trying desperately to do our Spanish homework and each time failing miserably. I watched as my mom's car pulled out of the driveway, she was on her way to look at houses in Toronto. My dad wanted to move closer to the city. "This is bogus," Maisha said as she threw down her pen. "I'm bored, let's do something." I informed her that there was nothing to do at my house. "Your mom stays here all day, what does she do?" Maisha knew about my mom's drinking, she'd seen it plenty of times before.
"You know what she does," I said, gluing my eyes to the cracked floorboards. "I guess we could take some."
"Only if you want to."
I got up off the bed, and she followed me. I headed down the stairs, avoiding the first step at the bottom, it was always wobbly and I was always afraid it would fall through one day. I headed into the laundry room and walked to the back corner, where the baskets were. I dug around the bottom, fishing my arm around trying to find it. I knew it was there, I had seen her put it there. I eventually felt the bottle and pulled it out. I untwisted the cap and smelled it. My face scrunched up as I pulled it away from myself. Maisha took the bottle and downed a sip, handing it back to me. I took a smaller, more hesitant one, then another, and another. By the end of the night Maisha had left and I was searching the house for more bottles.
My mom came back with my dad the next morning, to find me passed out on the floor. I had never heard her scream at me so loud. I fell asleep with a full bottle, a full, open bottle. My mom called Maisha's mom and said what we had done, getting both of us a serious grounding. I saw her at school only, we were still, in my mind, just as close.
Then I heard it. It was like a buzzsaw, it was so loud, yet it made no sense to me. I heard it from Angela, "Maisha's sick of you following her around." Me? Following? Since when? I mean, I knew it was only a matter of time. Eventually she'd get sick of me and leave. But I couldn't believe that she suddenly got so sick of it. I never said anything to her though. Things just stayed the same. Then summer came. I told her I was moving June 8, so she should come by on last time. She never came. She hated me. We drove away from the house, but I kept staring. I never saw her again; she was never on the news so I'm assuming she's still alive. She was my first best friend, and the first person to hate me.
I reread the entire thing, while replaying that day in my head. She never had any reason to hate me. But what was Sean's reason for hating me? This is why I know I will never find love.