"Brigitte Snaps Back"
Epilogue
(Out by Sixteen)
Brigitte rolls up her sleeve, exposing an inch or two of skin, just below her wrist. She presses the blade down. It sinks in with little pressure, and Brigitte feels that thin, ice-cold pain send shivers down her spine. She pulls and opens up a pretty cut.
"What the fuc- are you insane!?" Sam says, and before she can say anything, he's there, one hand on her arm, "Jesus Christ, Brigitte... why did you do that?"
"To see if it was sharp enough. Here." She presents the knife to him, "It's good to go."
"Fuck... I hate that you just do that."
Brigitte wonders if she'll ever stop feeling a bit warm inside, a bit shy inside whenever his concern becomes audible. Wonders if she'll ever want to.
He gently takes her wrist and lifts her arm up to inspect the wound. It's a habit of hers. Trauma, he guesses. Sometimes, when handling knives, or just passing him one, she just rolls up her sleeve and cuts. He knows that after that, until it heals, her eyes will be on the clock.
She's not healing so fast these days.
"Remind me never to ask for that carving knife again." He says.
The cut is decent, not as deep as some of the others, it's smooth, and while it's bleeding good, it's not that serious. An addition to the scars that cover both of her arms, wrist to elbow.
"This is gonna scar." Sam says, "But, credit where credit is due – steady as a surgeon. Maybe you oughtta go premed."
"Maybe."
Brigitte retrieves her arm and goes to the bathroom to get her usual supplies: iodine, cotton, gauze, plaster. They're all in their neat little cupboard behind the mirror.
(other girls have make up stuff, I have antiseptic)
She gets what she needs to get, and when she closes the mirror, she catches a glimpse of herself. The dark circles around her eyes, she feels, compliment the green orbs held inside them. Her hair is shorter now, shoulder-length, and she still feels a bit naked. But it's her own. Her clothes are different as well - a bit more her size. Still black, dark green and similar gothic hues, still layered, but they fit more snugly, a fact that Sam appreciates, and makes a point of telling her.
(I'll never understand what about this mess he finds so beautiful)
Almost one year and everything's so different that they're the same, she sees. Sometimes, Brigitte likes to pretend that the past year, or at least most of it, never happened. That her mother wasn't convicted of manslaughter, that her house wasn't sold, that her father didn't never call, that she didn't move in with Sam, that she's not back in school as (far as the rumors go) the resident freak with a tragedy chip on her shoulder and the dryg dealer boyfriend.
That Ginger never really died, but she was somewhere away from Bailey Downs. Still sixteen, forever sixteen and out by. She is, too; and Brigitte feels sometimes in complete awe of the fact that life still exists.
(give me a year, Ginge, and I'll show you)
"Shit!" Sam's voice interrupts her nostalgia. Brigitte knows what it is – he made a move, and isn't happy with it now. His use of the word is versatile, and she knows, just by the tone of his voice, exactly what he means.
(and all of it is so old and it's all still new somehow)
Brigitte returns to the living room. Sam is carefully observing his faux-bonsai, his brow furrowed, trying to decide how to undo what he just did. She sits down and proceeds to extract a cotton ball from the nylon bag.
"Would you trust me with anesthetized patients?" she asks.
"I trusted you with my life, and I turned out okay."
"You would." She says, "I'm considering funerary sciences."
"Now why does that not surprise me?"
"I'm thinking about Vancouver."
Sam raises an eyebrow.
"Why Vancouver?"
"Anywhere but here."
"Amen to that."
Brigitte soaks the iodine into the cotton ball. A slight movement alerts her, and she looks down to see two bird skulls, separated only by a closed loop slipknot, (the best I've ever tied) dangling from her neck. She looks up at Sam, slowly carving up his newest creation.
Brigitte smiles.
(together forever)
She starts cleaning the wound and sees that he's right – it'll leave a scar.