My mind was in free-fall; thoughts blurred by like so many of the buildings the hundreds of cars whirr by each day. My foot caught twice on the stairs; I slipped and cut my foot but didn’t feel a thing. On the third slip I hit my knee. I checked my jeans to make sure they hadn’t torn. Society teaches us to care about things like holes in our jeans rather than where they came from or who made them. I always wear jeans. But I don’t know who made them. Does that make me a bad person? Thankfully I wouldn’t have to worry about my knee being scratched. Not that it would matter. A scrape would blend right in with each of the cuts and scars adorning my legs, mimicking those scattered on my arms beneath my sleeves. I entered the bathroom without a glance to the mirror; I didn’t need to look to know the ugly face in front of me. I opened the medicine cabinet affixed to the wall. My fingers wrapped around the white bottle without hesitation. The action was familiar, yet there would be no repeat after today. I struggled briefly with the safety cap. I opened it for the first time. I hadn’t gone this far before. I never was any good at swallowing pills. But then again I couldn’t induce self-vomiting until three years ago. And even after those three years, I still didn’t like the taste of beer and I still didn’t feel the blade release my blood. I exited the bathroom and stepped into the room that I dared to call my own – as if we really own anything in life. I obtained a water bottle from my bedside table and settled onto my bed underneath the covers. I gulped one pill down after another, taking in water and air – the makings of life, but no life entered my corpse. One pill for the year my dad threw me out. One pill for all the times my brother touched me. One pill for all the times I made my mom cry. One pill for all the times I lied. One pill for all the times I hurt everyone. One pill for all the times I did nothing. One pill for her.
I saw her face every time I blinked; if I blinked enough she was in front of me. She was there on the floor, crying and in so much pain. I don’t know her name - I never did. At this moment if I reach out I will touch her. But will I save her this time? Her tears fell to the floor hitting their puddle with a hollow slap. Her hiccupping sobs echoed in my ears as they did in the dark hallway. Her cries became frustrated as she began striking her arm over and over and over. I ran then. The motion, I knew all too well. I came closer and saw what she held. The hallways are in desolate shambles; pieces of wall lie in crumbled heaps. She’d found one of the larger bits of concrete and used its point to deface her skin. I grabbed her arm, only then did she look up, tears glistened off her cheeks and made her eyes sparkle. Her distant voice repeated again and again in my mind.
“No, I need–” a sob finished her sentence for her.
With my free hand I pushed my sleeve midway up my arm with ease. A swift maneuver I’d perfected over the years. Her eyes flicked down and her gaze fell to my exposed skin. In the dim light I knew she saw what I shared when her eyes widened.
“What happened?” I coaxed softly.
She will tell me the story then; the story of her life and her problems. And the tears will continue to fall in an increased rush before they can finally slow. And I will be there like no one ever was for her. And I will understand like she thought no one ever could.
But this is only fiction in my slipping mind.
And though I don’t like to admit even to myself, in truth I did nothing. I saw her there crying and cutting. I knew I was no better and thought I couldn’t help. So instead of running to her, I ran away. Instead of saving her, I let her fall. I knew she was going to drop, but I'm not strong enough on my own. I could have helped her but I didn’t. I'm so tired of becoming something I never wanted to be.
But most of all I'm just tired.
Help prevent bullying.
(January 11, 2013)