Part 9
I remembered when I first started cutting. I always hated the sight of blood or open cuts--basically anything where a blade or needle would meet the skin and draw a deep red line. But since my brother and I were faced with biting words of hate each day, I really didn't have a choice. I was always given the cold shoulder at school and at home by my mother, so the razor-blade became the empty shoulder to cry on when no one else was around. When I learned about my brother's supposed death years before I ran and found him again, the wounds increased by the day. My mother claimed at one point that I was already turning into my brother...a strange and desolate human being who never belonged.
After I arrived at the Heartbreak, I still didn't feel like I belonged around anyone, considering that I still had some insecurities hidden deep down and that I longed to cling to my brother's shoulder like an annoying younger sibling, but couldn't since Scaramouche had already taken the position as his clingy, ultra-bitchy girlfriend. But I was slowly starting to adjust as time progressed. I practiced the songs on the piano each day when I had the time, helped the Bohemians with the repairs, and I didn't need my brother for support and guidance like I used to.
I had Layne. Layne was an interesting person to be around since we still didn't know each other very well. But at one point during the day when we weren't busy, we would rummage through the huge bins and boxes that were placed and scan the fake stories with enjoyment. We even discussed which tale was worth reading. He decided to read some story about a young wizard who had a mark on his forehead and went to a school for wizards. Layne mentioned that one of the Bohemians had read it before him and claimed that one of the characters looked a bit like him, which sounded pretty funny to me but it agitated the hell out of him.
---------------------------------------
(One night)
"Got enough room here for one more?"
I looked up at Layne and nodded, moving over on the mattress so that he could lie down and place his head on my lap.
"Rough few hours?" I asked, placing my hand on his forehead lightly.
"If I see one more slat that we need to fix, I'm gonna take one of 'em and bash it 'cross the back of Bob's head," Layne answered sarcastically, sighing slowly.
"That bad, then?" I asked.
"Not really. I just can't stand lookin' at those flat things for the floor of the stage. It's like, slat after slat..."
"But it's almost done, yeah?"
Layne shrugged and took a look at my scarred wrist.
"What happened there?" He asked, touching it lightly.
"A battle wound scar," I muttered.
"Bollocks. It's too deep a scar. You're…or were... a cutter. Supposedly."
I stared up at the ceiling and muttered a "supposedly" right back.
"Problems on the surface? You know, before you arrived?"
"That...and a million other things. But, my mom made up a vicious lie about my brother, the day he was caught outside of school. She said that he got killed by some Boyzone boys and I actually believed her. That's when it got worse."
"Mothers," he replied, shaking his head, "but you're fine now, right?"
I shrugged and looked away briefly at the hallway, where my brother was watching me and Layne in silence and utter confusion.
(To be continued...)
