I must go into the lavatory quickly, trying my best not to limp when the blood gushes out of my knee, staining my white cotton pants. I must avoid succumbing to the straining sensation in my throat. Hold my head straight, directly in central position. I am grounded, confident, emotionless. For the first time in a long time, you, the worst of all my tormentors, hurt me for real.
I have gotten into the habit of hiding small first aid kits in the washrooms. They are held by duct tape, and positioned on the bottom of the benches directly facing the large communal bath. This is how it is for all rooms. In every kit I have included bandaids of various sizes, antiseptic, and a bleach pen for removing bloodstains. I go to the nearest bathroom whenever someone is violent with me, driven by anger that they themselves cannot understand.
'So this is my reward for taking all of the agony. I win. I am pure. I am perfection,' I stand up sluggishly upon retrieving the small plastic case, looking at the mirror, finding myself unable to stop.
Another thing is happening for the first time in a long time, I am crying. 'God, I am such a child. I can't do this, I can't cry. If I cry I lose. I'm losing. Damn eyes, stop this.'
The crying won't end so I try to ignore it and put the antiseptic on my knee. The bleeding has stopped and now only a thin coating of red remains where my skin was torn away. The antiseptic abrasively stings me, but I am not upset by it. It performs a necessary function, as everyone does at the Wammy House, teacher and student alike.
I am rational, unresponsive, and just as many say, I am also proud. But I must confess quite irrationally: if I had to choose between the physical sting of this ointment or the pain of a love that I am ninety-seven percent certain is one sided, I would scrape off every inch of my thick skin, and douse myself in antibiotic liquid each and every day of my life.
