Old Scars
By RD
Looking down now, I can see them.
I never noticed before, but now they're screaming up at me, each tiny droplet shouting up at me, Look what he did! There are so many; he must have done it a few times before. A sparkle of silver catches my eye. The penknife. Silver and red, mingled. Still dripping. I grab it and shove it in my pocket. The carpet burns red underneath me.
I feel sick.
I have to get out of here, get some air. But the balcony feels as stuffy as inside the house. I can't face any of it. I can't talk to his parents, even though that's what I'm there for. I can barely even look at them. Why did he do it? they ask me, over and over. How should I know?
But they come out anyway. My heart is beating fast. I clutch my hand to my chest to stop it thumping right out. Will you visit him? they ask me, Because he won't speak to us. I wonder why? I wonder why you didn't notice? But neither did I, so I have no right to be handing out blame. I nod, my back still on them, my hand still creasing my shirt. And I manage to leave without having to look at their eyes.
I do go straight away, not because they asked me to, but because I need to know he's still alive. That he wasn't dead when I found him. That image will be printed into my mind forever, a huge, horrible scar. Will I look at him and only be able to see that memory? Nothing etched so deep could ever be rubbed out. I do not look in the graveyard as I pass the church, for fear of seeing a stone with his name on.
I don't know the way, so I have to ask someone. I feel embarrassed, ashamed to know someone there. I walk all the way with my head down. The building, when I reach it, glows sadly, radiating the sorrow of the people within. Alcoholics. Anorexics. Suicidals. He's in here. I wish he wasn't.
The doors are light, glass, but I can't see through them. Only the reflection of the car park. Almost empty. Inside, the walls are white, the floor is shiny and my trainers squeak on it. The nurse at the desk hasn't got a uniform. The waiting room is empty too. The nurse smiles as me and asks if she can help. I nod and give her my name, Motomiya Daisuke and his name, Ken Ichijouji. She takes her clipboard and pen and leads me down a thousand white corridors. There are voices from some of the rooms, and some of them are just silent. The corridor we stop at is silent. All the ODs and cutters. She takes me to a door and knocks on it. No reply. She opens the door slowly and whispers that I'm here. I can't see inside but I can hear him say, very quietly, that it's okay for me to come in.
I'm surprised that the room looks normal. There is a little TV in one corner and a little CD player in another. The walls are not white, they're pale blue. So is the ceiling. The carpet is deeper. There are two photos on the bedside table, not framed, just lying there. One is of his parents and him and one is of all the digidestined and him, except he's scratched out himself in both of them. I wonder if he used the same blade. And there's him, sitting on the bed, reading a book. The nurse goes, and we are alone together in the silence. A dull thudding is coming from the room next door. I ask him if it's annoying. He says he's used to it now. It's like he's been here forever, though it's only been a few days.
The jumper he's wearing is strategically covering the cuts.
I sit next to him on the bed. He asks me why I'm not being normal. Because this isn't normal, I say. Because you've changed everything.
Why did you do it?
I say.
Because it felt good.
He says.
I am angry. I slap him hard. He doesn't even seem to notice or care. I shout at him. Didn't he even think how it would affect me? Didn't he see me crying into my pillow every night since then? Didn't he know how lost his parents are now? He's barely listening. I'm not getting through to him. He's not letting himself hear.
How would he feel if I died? Here, look, I've got the knife. I stole it from his room. I'll do it now, and then he'll know how I feel.
I press the cold metal into my wrist. A tiny drip of blood forms. It doesn't feel good at all. It hurts like hell. He cries out and knocks the penknife from my hand. He presses the little intercom button hanging over his bed for help. The same nurse comes, and she gasps when she sees the knife and my wrist. She takes me to a different room and bandages it up.
Did he tell you to do it?
She says.
No. I wanted to show him what I feel like, knowing he did that to himself. He won't do it again now.
I say.
That was a very stupid thing to do.
She is angry at me. I am angry at him. He is angry at himself.
She lets me see him again, but I have to talk to him in the waiting room where she can watch us. He is crying. He says he is sorry many times, his whole body shaking. I make him promise he won't die until he's a wrinkly old man. He promises. I'm not so angry anymore. I hug him as tightly as I can, and he wraps his own damaged arms around my waist, and we both tell each other how we are so sorry, and we both cry a bit. His nails are digging into my skin, but they're not very long, so it doesn't hurt. When we've had our cry and our hug, he shows me his wrists. There are old scars as well as new ones. It's horrible and I don't want to look at them, so I pull his sleeve down quickly.
We talk for a long time then. About the future. He can now he's promised to have one. We make up dream futures about private islands and grand mansions. But then the nurse looks at her watch and tells me Ken has to go to bed now. She says I can come and visit again tomorrow. I don't want to leave him. I wonder what my parents will say about my wrist. I wonder if he'll find the knife in the nurse's pocket. But I trust him more than that.
I hug him again, a shorter one because we have to go. I kiss him. We stare at each other, then kiss again, and a few more times. The nurse says Ken really has to go now.
One more minute, I say to her.
Is this alright? I say to him.
Yes, he says to me.
Then, it'll be alright tomorrow as well? I say.
Yes, he says.
I'll see you then.
I say.
I love you.
I say.
I love you too.
He says.
By RD
Looking down now, I can see them.
I never noticed before, but now they're screaming up at me, each tiny droplet shouting up at me, Look what he did! There are so many; he must have done it a few times before. A sparkle of silver catches my eye. The penknife. Silver and red, mingled. Still dripping. I grab it and shove it in my pocket. The carpet burns red underneath me.
I feel sick.
I have to get out of here, get some air. But the balcony feels as stuffy as inside the house. I can't face any of it. I can't talk to his parents, even though that's what I'm there for. I can barely even look at them. Why did he do it? they ask me, over and over. How should I know?
But they come out anyway. My heart is beating fast. I clutch my hand to my chest to stop it thumping right out. Will you visit him? they ask me, Because he won't speak to us. I wonder why? I wonder why you didn't notice? But neither did I, so I have no right to be handing out blame. I nod, my back still on them, my hand still creasing my shirt. And I manage to leave without having to look at their eyes.
I do go straight away, not because they asked me to, but because I need to know he's still alive. That he wasn't dead when I found him. That image will be printed into my mind forever, a huge, horrible scar. Will I look at him and only be able to see that memory? Nothing etched so deep could ever be rubbed out. I do not look in the graveyard as I pass the church, for fear of seeing a stone with his name on.
I don't know the way, so I have to ask someone. I feel embarrassed, ashamed to know someone there. I walk all the way with my head down. The building, when I reach it, glows sadly, radiating the sorrow of the people within. Alcoholics. Anorexics. Suicidals. He's in here. I wish he wasn't.
The doors are light, glass, but I can't see through them. Only the reflection of the car park. Almost empty. Inside, the walls are white, the floor is shiny and my trainers squeak on it. The nurse at the desk hasn't got a uniform. The waiting room is empty too. The nurse smiles as me and asks if she can help. I nod and give her my name, Motomiya Daisuke and his name, Ken Ichijouji. She takes her clipboard and pen and leads me down a thousand white corridors. There are voices from some of the rooms, and some of them are just silent. The corridor we stop at is silent. All the ODs and cutters. She takes me to a door and knocks on it. No reply. She opens the door slowly and whispers that I'm here. I can't see inside but I can hear him say, very quietly, that it's okay for me to come in.
I'm surprised that the room looks normal. There is a little TV in one corner and a little CD player in another. The walls are not white, they're pale blue. So is the ceiling. The carpet is deeper. There are two photos on the bedside table, not framed, just lying there. One is of his parents and him and one is of all the digidestined and him, except he's scratched out himself in both of them. I wonder if he used the same blade. And there's him, sitting on the bed, reading a book. The nurse goes, and we are alone together in the silence. A dull thudding is coming from the room next door. I ask him if it's annoying. He says he's used to it now. It's like he's been here forever, though it's only been a few days.
The jumper he's wearing is strategically covering the cuts.
I sit next to him on the bed. He asks me why I'm not being normal. Because this isn't normal, I say. Because you've changed everything.
Why did you do it?
I say.
Because it felt good.
He says.
I am angry. I slap him hard. He doesn't even seem to notice or care. I shout at him. Didn't he even think how it would affect me? Didn't he see me crying into my pillow every night since then? Didn't he know how lost his parents are now? He's barely listening. I'm not getting through to him. He's not letting himself hear.
How would he feel if I died? Here, look, I've got the knife. I stole it from his room. I'll do it now, and then he'll know how I feel.
I press the cold metal into my wrist. A tiny drip of blood forms. It doesn't feel good at all. It hurts like hell. He cries out and knocks the penknife from my hand. He presses the little intercom button hanging over his bed for help. The same nurse comes, and she gasps when she sees the knife and my wrist. She takes me to a different room and bandages it up.
Did he tell you to do it?
She says.
No. I wanted to show him what I feel like, knowing he did that to himself. He won't do it again now.
I say.
That was a very stupid thing to do.
She is angry at me. I am angry at him. He is angry at himself.
She lets me see him again, but I have to talk to him in the waiting room where she can watch us. He is crying. He says he is sorry many times, his whole body shaking. I make him promise he won't die until he's a wrinkly old man. He promises. I'm not so angry anymore. I hug him as tightly as I can, and he wraps his own damaged arms around my waist, and we both tell each other how we are so sorry, and we both cry a bit. His nails are digging into my skin, but they're not very long, so it doesn't hurt. When we've had our cry and our hug, he shows me his wrists. There are old scars as well as new ones. It's horrible and I don't want to look at them, so I pull his sleeve down quickly.
We talk for a long time then. About the future. He can now he's promised to have one. We make up dream futures about private islands and grand mansions. But then the nurse looks at her watch and tells me Ken has to go to bed now. She says I can come and visit again tomorrow. I don't want to leave him. I wonder what my parents will say about my wrist. I wonder if he'll find the knife in the nurse's pocket. But I trust him more than that.
I hug him again, a shorter one because we have to go. I kiss him. We stare at each other, then kiss again, and a few more times. The nurse says Ken really has to go now.
One more minute, I say to her.
Is this alright? I say to him.
Yes, he says to me.
Then, it'll be alright tomorrow as well? I say.
Yes, he says.
I'll see you then.
I say.
I love you.
I say.
I love you too.
He says.