A/N: This may be the last update until December – I'm doing NaNoWriMo in November, and I'm also starting a new job on 4 November which will mean I suddenly have 20 hours less free time a week. (Getting to work will be a bit more of a commute than it is at the moment!) So I probably won't have much free time in November. I will be back though … you can come after me with torches and pitchforks if I'm not!

wisegeek dot com / how-can-i-tell-if-a-cut-is-infected . htm

is the website Caitlin mentions and quotes

Tuesday doesn't get off to a very good start. Although I'm getting used to things not getting off to good starts … or having good middles, come to think of it. And as for happy endings? Forget it.

Again, Jesse snags me outside of class.

"God, Jesse, what are you like stalking me now?"

"I just want to talk to you. You won't return any of my texts or calls."

"No, I won't. Do you know why, Jesse? Because I don't want to talk to you."

"Ellie, be reasonable –"

"Reasonable? Oh my God. You're kidding, right? There's nothing reasonable about what you did."

"I know, and I'm trying to apologise. But you won't listen to me."

"Please, Jesse. Just leave me alone."

"Ellie, we need to talk about us."

"There is no us, Jesse. Not anymore."

"Look, don't make this into a big deal. It was just a bit of fun."

"Fun? Fun for who, Jesse? Not for me."

"I know –"

"You know … but you don't care. Or don't care enough about me. It's over. Just, please. Leave me alone."

I'm shaking as I walk away, and scared that he might follow me. But I don't dare look behind me to check. I should be heading to Psych now, but I find my feet taking me in a different direction. Soon I'm locking myself in a stall in the restroom, leaning my head against the door.

I can hear a million voices in my head.

Ellie, you're so stupid.

You'll never find anything close to love again. You should take what you can get. Jesse's it.

He doesn't even really want you back. He only cares about one thing.

This always happens to you.

It's your fault.

If you weren't so boring Jesse never would have gone after Caitlin. You'd still be happy.

You're an idiot.

And you're skipping class now. Nice. You're going to flunk out of university.

Like Paige. Are you having fun living with Paige, Ellie?

She hates you, too.

Everyone does, really. How could anyone not hate you?

I just want to shut the voices up. I close my eyes and think about how good a blade would feel on my skin right now.

But you left your blade at home, didn't you Ellie? Stupid.

I put the toilet lid down and sit on it, placing my bag on my lap. I search for something, anything, sharp, becoming frantic. The sharpest thing I can find is a paperclip at the bottom of my bag. I dust it off quickly, and roll up my sleeve, noting a clear patch of skin near the inside of my elbow. I press the paperclip's end against my skin, and scrape. It does nothing. There's barely a mark on my skin, and the voices in my head are still taunting me. So I turn to my healing cuts instead, eyeing a particularly long and new one. The paperclip is sufficient to rip it open again, along with several others.

I enjoy the silence that cutting brings. Sitting with a wad of toilet paper pressed against my arm I can hear my heart beating, sending blood coursing through my veins and down my arm. Everything else fades away.

…..

Sitting in the café later that day, waiting for Caitlin, I can feel my arm burning beneath my sleeve.

Okay. Don't think about it. Don't touch it. Don't do anything suspicious, Ellie. Don't show her that there's anything wrong.

In a moment she slides into the seat across from me, looking harried. I feel bad for dragging her away from her work. She always has a million things on the go. I don't want to add to that. She shouldn't have to waste her time with me, or with my problems.

Caitlin shrugs her jacket off and brushes a strand of hair out of her face. "Hi Ellie. Sorry I'm a bit late, I hope you haven't been waiting too long?"

"No, I just got here a few minutes ago."

"Oh, good." She rummages in her bag and pulls out her purse. "Black, right?"

I nod dumbly, and she stands up. "Be right back." While she's at the counter ordering our coffees I slide my sleeve down, using my hand to shield my arm from view. I examine my handiwork, noting the redness on my arm. That's new. It's never happened before.

Caitlin returns after I've pushed my sleeve back down, and smiles at me. "So, how are you? Your Tuesday any better than Monday?"

I laugh softly. Well, I bumped into Jesse again, and couldn't make it to half my classes because I was tearing my skin up in the washroom. "I'm okay. How are you? How's all your work at the studio?"

"Oh, it's going well. It's just busy getting everything set up, but it's all going to plan. How's university?"

"It's fine."

She reaches across and taps my clasped hands. "Come on, Ellie, this is Caitlin you're talking to. Talk to me."

"I … I don't want to bother you."

"You're not bothering me at all, sweetie. I enjoy spending time with you. I want to listen to you, I want you to be able to talk to me. About anything. So … anything new happened since we talked yesterday?"

My earlier resolve melts away. It is nice to have someone to talk to. "I saw Jesse again today."

"Again? Is he stalking you or something?"

I laugh. "That's what I asked him. It feels like it though. Two days in a row he's been waiting outside my lectures."

"Waiting to pounce?"

"Exactly."

We're momentarily interrupted when the waiter comes over with our drinks, but we pick up where we'd left off.

"What did he want?"

"Oh, to apologize, to make excuses, to stay together."

"Stay together?"

"We're not, obviously. But it's kind of scary that he's so intent on it. Hopefully he'll leave me alone now."

"I hope so. God, how horrible for you!"

She almost looks upset for me, and I remember her talking about the guy who'd stalked her while they were at Degrassi, and realize that she does actually understand some of what I'm feeling. I guess that's what makes me utter my next sentence.

"I miss my dad already."

Caitlin, to her credit, only looks surprised at the abrupt change of subject for a nanosecond, before responding.

"Of course you do, sweets."

"And I'm worried about him, and I know I'll be worried until he gets home, whenever that is. If he comes home, of course."

Caitlin grabs my hand and strokes my palm with her thumb. "I wish I knew what to say. I wish I knew how to make it all better. I can't imagine how you must feel with your dad serving overseas."

"I feel terrible, whenever I think of him. And whenever I'm happy about something I remember that he's facing danger miles away, then feel guilty about being happy."

"That's not a bad thing. Your dad would want you to be happy. How's your mom doing?"

Better than I am. "She seems okay. Lonely though. We had lunch after seeing him off."

"And have you …" she trails off, unable to say it. I know what she means though. Unfortunately I can't tell her what she wants to hear.

"Yeah", I whisper. Her grip on my hand becomes tighter. "It's hard to stop. I think I want to, but then when I'm in the moment I don't want to." I'm reminded now of how my arm is burning. It's starting to itch too. I rub it, gently, so I don't reopen any cuts. Caitlin lets go of my hand and places her palm delicately on my arm. I think she's about to ask to see, but she doesn't.

She thinks you're a freak, like everyone else does, of course she doesn't want to see.

No, I argue with myself, she's just being nice and giving you some privacy. She cares.

….

Marco, needing to use the bathroom, finds me in the early hours of the morning hunched over the toilet. I've never felt so nauseated in my life.

"Elle, what's wrong? Are you sick?"

I can only nod, and he presses the back of his hand to my forehead. "You feel really warm."

I drag myself to my feet and stumble to the door. Marco calls after me, "Go lie down Ellie, I'll be through in a minute."

In my room, I collapse on my bed and groan into my pillow. Marco's not far behind me, coming in with a wet washcloth and a tall glass of water. I roll onto my back and he presses the washcloth to my forehead. I close my eyes, enjoying the coolness.

"Marco?"

"Yeah?" He's hovering awkwardly by my bed.

"Stay with me?"

He smiles, the first real smile he's given me for a while. "Of course." I'm confused when he then turns and walks away, but moments after he switches my light off I feel him settle beside me on my bed, and wraps am around me. It's a Kodak moment, only it's dark so no one would be able to see it, and it lasts only briefly.

"Elle?"

"Mmm?" I've begun to nod off.

"It's cold. I'm gonna get under the covers okay?"

"Sure."

There's rustling and shuffling. "Ellie?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you cold?"

"No."

"Oh."

Silence.

"Ellie?"

"Uh huh?"

"Maybe you should get under the covers too. Is that what you're meant to do for a fever? I can't remember. Are you actually hot, or does your body just assume you are?"

I have no idea what he's talking about, but I know I want him to stop talking so I can get to sleep. So, holding the washcloth against my head, I sit up, draw my legs up to my chest, and then slip under the covers.

Two minutes later, I'm far too hot, and I'm feeling really nauseated again.

"Elle? Where are you going?"

"I feel sick, and so hot. I'm gonna go take a cold shower. I'll be back in a bit. Don't worry."

In the bathroom I peel my pyjamas from my clammy skin, and step into the shower, turning it on. I jump as the first cold drops hit my skin, but relax as the water washes over me and cools me down.

I inspect my arm, still crusted with blood. My skin is bright red and puffy in patches. How weird, I muse. It's never looked like that before.

After my shower I put my pyjamas back on, grimacing as I notice that they're damp with sweat. Not much I can do about that, though. I head back to my room, where I lie down – on top of the covers – and fall asleep.

I spend the next couple of days cooped up in my bedroom, generally feeling miserable and sorry for myself. Marco brings me soup and orange juice. Somehow I manage to prevent him from dragging me off to a doctor – what if they saw my arm?

At some stage I drag myself to my desk, and boot up my computer, intending to do some study – hopefully I can catch up with the classes I've been missing.

Logging into my email, I find a message from Caitlin:

From: "Caitlin Ryan" .com

To: "Ellie Nash"

Subject: Keep in touch

Hi Ellie,

It was great to catch up with you the other day. Keep in touch, okay? I want to hear from you! Although I'm busy with work at the moment, you can catch my on email or text, whenever you want.

How are you? Is Jesse still bugging you? Hope not.

Caitlin

From: "Ellie Nash"

To: "Caitlin Ryan" .com

Subject: Re: Keep in touch

Hi Caitlin,

The good news is that I haven't seen or heard from Jesse since Tuesday. The bad news is I haven't made it into university since Tuesday. I'm sick. Hopefully it doesn't last too long … I don't want to fall behind in my papers.

Thanks for caring. It means a lot.

Ellie

From: "Caitlin Ryan" .com

To: "Ellie Nash"

Subject: Re: Keep in touch

You're sick? You poor thing. Flu?

And you don't need to thank me. I enjoy spending time with you, and I want to help you out if I can. So do let me know if there's anything I can do.

From: "Ellie Nash"

To: "Caitlin Ryan" .com

Subject: Re: Keep in touch

I don't know if it's the flu or not. I have bouts of fever and I feel sick.

It'll pass.

From: "Caitlin Ryan".com

To: "Ellie Nash"

Subject: Infection?

Ellie,

You can tell me to shut up if you want. But do you think your feeling sick could be the result of an infection? I found this online:

One of the most obvious signs that a cut is infected is inflammation, characterized by swelling and heat around the cut. The inflammation may also cause the tissue around the cut to change color: it can appear reddened or blanched. If the skin turns greenish, blackish, or blue, it is a sign of a very serious infection accompanied by tissue death, and it needs medical attention immediately.

Infected cuts are also often painful and tender to the touch. The surrounding area may also feel painful or hard. While some discharge from a cut is normal, thick, smelly, or strangely colored discharges indicate that an infection may be active in the wound. Likewise, if a cut keeps breaking open and bleeding, this can indicate that the body's normal healing process has been interrupted by infection.

If red stripes start to radiate out from an infected cut, the patient should seek medical attention immediately. If the infection fails to resolve within a few days, or gets worse, a doctor should be consulted, as he or she can provide stronger medications and more in-depth treatments, including debridement of the cut to remove debris which may be trapped inside. An altered level of consciousness, fever, or headache can be a sign that the infection is spreading and that it may have reached a dangerous state.

Look after yourself, okay?

I think I'll give you a ring this evening.

Caitlin xx

Her last email scares me. What if my cuts are infected? Swelling and heat, check. Painful and tender, check. Fever and headache, check.

I haven't exactly been careful – reusing blades, reopening cuts, and not cleaning them or looking after them. I used to, but throwing out my cutting equipment last year had meant that I've made use of what I have.

Namely, a blade from a disposable razor, and a paperclip.

My first instinct is to rush and clean my cuts out with soap and water, but I realise that I don't have any first aid supplies – bandages and the like – to cover it with afterwards.

Right. I'm on a mission. My first port of call is the chemist, where I pick up some disinfectant, antibiotic cream, gauze, tape, Band-Aids, and ace bandages.

"Restocking a First Aid kit?" the cashier enquires.

"Exactly. Gotta be prepared, you know."

My next stop is the supermarket, to pick up some razorblades. Obviously, buying them at the chemist would have been a dead giveaway as to my intentions. I don't, of course, only buy the blades. I buy an assortment of groceries – cereal, pasta, and the like – that I'm sure I'll need at some stage. Again, a girl coming in and only buying razorblades – well, that's a bit suspicious.

Back at home I lock myself in the bathroom, and fill the sink with water. I scrub at my arm, reopening all my cuts, and washing them out. It hurts – a lot more than cutting myself does. I guess that's because I'm not trying to hurt myself right now, but trying to protect myself. When I'm satisfied that they're clean, I wipe disinfectant over them. God my arm stings. Then I apply antiseptic cream, before covering them with bandages, and pulling my sweater on.

Hopefully that's done the trick. I'll die of embarrassment if I have to get proper medical attention.

As promised, Caitlin does phone that evening, sounding worried. I do my best to reassure her that I'm okay, although I'm doubtful of that myself.

"I don't think that my cuts are infected. I think it's just the flu. But I cleaned them thoroughly today, and covered them."

"I hope so, I really hope so. Maybe you should go and get them checked out though. Just to be safe."

I don't respond to that, and there's an uncomfortable silence, which Caitlin breaks, conceding.

"Or not. And you don't want to talk about it. How about this: we'll give it a day, and if you're not feeling any better we'll go get them checked out."

I'm touched that she says "we'll", instead of "you'll", which is probably why I agree, though I'm crossing my fingers and praying that I will be okay now.