Becca didn't cry. She never cried. At least on the outside she didn't. She would never admit it, but she missed her mom. She missed her tons. And even though Becca knew that her mom had way more important things to do, deep down she longed to sit and chat. Even though the country needed Mackenzie Allen, Becca needed her, too.
Becca locked her door at night. Every night. She locked her door and stripped down to underwear. Becca didn't cry, but her body did. Her body cried blood. Becca walked slowly over to her dresser, and pulled out the top drawer. She removed her diary, a purple and blue book worn from use. She removed it almost ceremoniously.
She walked over to her bed, and laid the diary down. She sat on the bed, her long, skinny legs stretched out as far as they could go. She opened the cover of the diary and reached her fingers into a shallow pocket in the front, meant for pictures or notes. Becca pulled out a razor blade. She tossed her diary onto the floor, uninterested. She looked at the razor, shining menacingly in the dim light. Becca held it to her chest, between her small breasts.
Becca closed her eyes, and pressed the razor to her milky flesh. She shuddered slightly as she slid the blade downwards. Tiny crimson dots began to lick at the razor's trail, until it was a stream of crimson, dripping between Becca's breasts, staining her light pink bra.
She did it again, crossing over the first cut in an X pattern. She pulled the razor along her flesh, painting her body in her own blood. She felt so beautiful, so perfect, covered in her essence.
That night was different. There was a knock at the door. "Becca?" she heard her mother's voice. Becca panicked.
"Just a minute, mom." She slipped the razor back into her diary, shoving it under her bed. She pulled on a white tank top and plaid pants. She ran over to the door, unlocking it and opening it swiftly. "Sorry, just changing," Becca lied. "What's up?"
Mac looked at her daughter. "Are you alright, Bec?" She looked into her daughter's blue-grey eyes. They were her father's eyes, no doubt.
"No, I'm not alright," Becca said. She was shocked as soon as she said it. Her eyes were wide. She couldn't believe she just said it. "I mean… no, I'm fine, really," Becca tried to cover up her slip.
"Becca." Mac stroked her daughter's dirty blonde hair. "What is it, baby?" Mac looked at her daughter's hands. "Is that blood, Becca?"
"Um…" Becca tried. "Yeah, I had a bit of a bloody nose." She smiled at her mother. Mac didn't smile back.
"Becca." Mac pulled her daughter's arms to hers, looking intently at the crisscross scars the laced Becca's skin. "Becca, please. What did you do to yourself?" Mac's eyes filled with tears. She couldn't seem to control her emotions lately. "Becca, please?" Mac looked desperately into her daughter's pained eyes.
"It's nothing," Becca said, pulling away. "Just an accident."
"An accident with what? A sewing machine?" Mac asked, rage nipping at her tone. "I'm not stupid, Becca. I know what you are doing. And it is not helping you, no matter how much you might think it is, OK?" Mac looked at her daughter. Becca's eyes filled with tears.
"How the hell would you know?" Becca lashed out. "You've never even come close to feeling what I am. You have no idea what kind of stress I am going through!" Becca almost sobbed to her mother.
"No idea?" Mac asked. "I think I know what stress is, young lady. I haven't slept in three days, waiting for some news about hijacked nerve gas in the middle of nowhere. THAT is stress. And yes, Becca. I know what you feel like!" Mac said, yanking her sleeves up. Scars laced the president's arms. Becca looked at her mother's skin in shock.
"Mom?" Becca asked, her eyes wide in shock.
"Yeah, Becca." Mac looked into her daughter's eyes, and hugged her tightly.
"I love you, Mom," Becca gushed. "I miss you."
"I love you too, Becca. I never get to see you either, it sucks on both side, hon," Mac said, solemn laughter in her voice. "So talk to me."
"You used to cut, too?" Becca asked. "But… why?"
"It's not exactly easy, being six feet tall and extremely intelligent," Mac said simply. "And then when your parents split up and everything…" she trailed off. Her past haunted her, but she pushed it away. "Becca, I need you to stop doing this. For me. For yourself." Mac looked at her daughter with pleading eyes.
"I'll try," Becca said.
"No, you will. Give me your razors." Mac demanded of her daughter sternly. Becca reached into her drawer reluctantly and pulled out a box of razor blades and handed them to her mother.
"Here."
"Thank you, Becca. And if you ever need to talk…"
"OK, mom. I promise." Becca said this genuinely.
"Good. I love you, Rebecca Calloway. Don't you ever forget it." Mac hugged her daughter.
"I love you too, mom." Becca reached into her diary and gave her the last of her blades. Mac nodded to her. "Good night, Mom," Becca said.
"Goodnight, Becca." Mac turned off the lights and left. In the hallway, Mac slumped against the wall for a moment, her head reeling. She felt a touch on her shoulder.
"What's wrong, hon?" Rod asked, kissing Mac gently on the cheek.
"Rod," Mac said, handing him the box of razors. "We need to talk about Becca."
