I cant tell if the girl in the mirror is me anymore, in this pit of bodies I don’t know that I care—just promise me one thing, promise me you wont forget me. The words seem so carefully careless as I read them to myself but I knew they were not, they were just the ramblings of some random girl that no one would remember. I felt the cold sliver of metal in my hand and watched the light glitter off its razor edge as tears prickled in my eyes but did not fall. They never fall, I hit bottom so fast that they just can’t keep up, and they never fall.
Slowly, to prolong the pain of payment, I drag the metal edge up and down my forearm. Slowly the words that flash in my mind like violent rubies form in liquid guilt, filling the tears in my flesh. Now the tears came, one by one—tiny toy soldiers marching to battle back the rage. I leaned over my arm, cradling it painfully and wondering why I do this to myself. The pain clears my head; it makes the voices stop but is it really worth the silence?
A knock on the bathroom door sends me staggering for one of the bandages I made out of old sheets weeks ago. I wound it around my arm tightly, hoping whoever is on the other side of the door doesn’t decide to just walk in. Quickly I ran water over my face and hands to wash away the blood and tears before stashing my friend in my pocket and jerking the door open, trying desperately trying not to flinch as my father glares down at me.
“Move.” He barks as his arm lifts across his chest, open handed—threatening to send me tumbling again. I move out of the way as fast as I can with my spinning head but it isn’t fast enough and he cuffs my ear, knocking me down. I lay sprawled across the hall floor, too dizzy to move as he kicks me in the ribs and spits on me. I curl into a ball to prevent him from slamming my feet in the bathroom door and even though I want to cry, I know the tears won’t fall—they won’t fall unless I crash and bleed first.
My mother steps over me, rolling her eyes dramatically and I hear the rattle of painkillers from her bedroom. I know she is just about out; soon she will start hunting for Dad’s meds and then mine. I don’t tell her where I hide them anymore, I know she is killing herself but I suppose it’s no different that bleeding to affirm your connection to life. I can hear running water now, and I haul myself to my knees so I can crawl the three feet into my bedroom and shut the door—so I can escape my father’s wrath.
“Helena? Helena!” my father’s voice echoes like thunder through the house, Mom is probably hiding under the bed like usual. I crawl to my closet quietly and pull out a pair of arm socks to cover the bandage—even if Dad didn’t care, Mom would when she resurfaced from the endless embrace of ecstasy. I sit for a second, chewing on a piece of chocolate from my candy stash and wait for my world to settle down. I knew I would have to get up and make myself presentable so Alyx—my brother—wouldn’t try to take me away. Mom invited Alyx to dinner every Sunday. Sometimes I think she wants me to mess up, wants me to miss a bruise or run out of makeup so Alyx will take me away.
A soft tapping seeped through my door; Alyx was the only one who knocked like that so I stumbled from my bed to my door and pulled it open just a crack. It wasn’t Alyx; it was Zaire—Alyx’s best friend—who stood at my bedroom door, waiting patiently for me to answer.
“Hey, Baby Sister! Are you coming down or do we have to drag you out?” I knew Zaire was joking, he always pretended like he didn’t know about my bruises and how Dad used to treat Alyx but he knew. Zaire was the one who told Dad to stop; Zaire gave Alyx the strength and money to move out. It was Zaire who found me when I ran away two years ago. He found me half dead in a ditch but he signed as my brother at the hospital and told them that I wasn’t allowed to have medication for religious reasons so Mom couldn’t get to it.
“I’m coming; I just need to get dressed. I forgot it was Sunday and didn’t get a shower until just a few minutes ago.” Zaire seemed to accept this but I could still tell he was trying to see my face in the gloom of my bedroom. I was glad he couldn’t—I could already feel my cheek swelling and the bruise forming on my face. My ear was probably bleeding; I have 22 ear piercings, 9 facial piercings, 11 body piercings and two corset piercings—Dad always managed to hit at least one.
I closed the door softly and stepped to my mirror, thankful that the candy I was munching on was bringing my blood sugar back up so my world would stop spinning. I changed my various barbells, studs and hoops so that they were all silver and dug through my makeup drawer looking for my black shadow and liner. I already have my cover up handy and set to work. I cover each bruise carefully and make sure to make it look like my swelling cheek is just a trick of the light. Then I dig through my closet and find a pair of arm socks that match my black tank top and drainpipe jeans. My black boots are next but I can only find one under the bed so I decide to hold off on those. I finally find my grey scale scarf in the top of my closet and my favorite vest with the faux fur on the hood. Finally I am ready, and Alyx is calling my name impatiently. He is calling for Renee.
“Hey baby sister!” calls Alyx as he wraps me in a bear hug, jarring my arm so hard that I have to bite my lip to keep from yelping in pain. Even though I quickly mask the contortion of pain that momentarily crossed my face I can tell that Zaire caught it and I pray he doesn’t say anything in front of Alyx. I don’t want Alyx to know, I don’t want him to come back and I don’t want to go to court. I am done trying, I just want to give up—I want to scream at them, to tell them I am bleeding through my makeup and I don’t know how to hide it anymore.
“Hey big brother!” I try to make my voice sound as excited as possible, but it’s hard when I love my brother and all I want him to do is run as fast as he can away from me. I love him so much, he was the one who brushed my tears away when the night got too dark and he was the one who never missed a game in Junior High. Alyx was the one, he was my number one but I can’t afford to love him like that anymore—I have to love him enough, enough to let him go.
We separate slowly and I notice his tee shirt says To Write Love on Her Arms and I think about my own tee shirt (Love Is the Movement) and the year Alyx took me to Taste of Chaos to get them. I got to meet the original Renee and it was the best time I have ever had in my life. She was very cool, and she asked me if anything was wrong and I said I was fine. Alyx brought me home that night and slept on my floor because Dad was at the bar and Mom was passed out and I was scared. In that instant I know I can’t not love Alyx, he is the reason I still care enough to breathe.
Mom steps out of the kitchen to call us to dinner and I am still surprised that my Mom is only thirty five and she still looks twenty when she is sober. I smile, hug her—glad she isn’t passed out again—and walk into the kitchen to take my place at the table. We eat, there is light banter and its okay but Dad isn’t home and I know as soon as he gets home everything will change. So when I hear the car pull into the driveway and the rattle of beer cans shatters the happy conversation in the kitchen I disappear upstairs where Dad is sure to not find me. He hates coming up the stairs when he is drunk.
I close the bathroom door behind me and feel along the edge of the wall until I find the razor that I hid between the wall and the floor trim. I pull off my right arm sock and run the blade along my arm, wondering if I dare press down while Alyx is here. What if he came looking for me? What if he found me here like this? The bathroom door is locked but a simple lock has never stopped him before. I slowly drag the blade across my skin, pushing harder and harder with each stroke. As light scratches turn to gashes tears fall faster and faster—I have fallen and they are following me. The blood runs from my arm as fast as the tears run from my eyes—drop for drop, track for track, guilt for regret.
I wake up on my bed, both of my arms are re-bandaged and my arm socks are gone. I must have passed out and someone must have found me. I can hear voices from the living room but everything is fuzzy and spinning. I get up again and stumble for the stash in my closet and dig out a piece of chocolate. Slowly I am able to tell what is being said, and I can hear shouting. Alyx is angry, I can hear that much and Dad is shouting back. I hear Mom scream and I sit on the floor at the top of the stairs. Zaire pulls her into the entry way and holds her so she cant see what’s happening in the living room, but its obvious Dad and Alyx are fighting again. I can hear things breaking and I know it’s all my fault—I know Alyx and Dad are fighting over me. I shouldn’t have pushed down, I should have just put he razor back between the wall and the trim and left it there but I guess I am the selfish bitch my Dad tells me I am all the time.
I feel my eyes burn, and tilt my head back slowly—trying to keep the tears at bay and wondering what has happened to me. Dad comes out of the living room, his face red and he barrels up the stairs. I try to run for my room but the world is still a little fuzzy and I can’t get out of the way fast enough. He knocks me over, stepping on my fingers and breaking them.
“Guess you won’t do that again.” He sneers as he kicks my bandaged arm before kicking me in the ribs for good measure. I curl into a ball and my ribs throb and my arm burns and I cry. I sob for my mother, who is crying on the floor; I sob for Zaire who has been dragged into a mess he didn’t make; I sob for Alyx who should have gotten out along time ago; I sob for my father who was burdened with such a fuck up of a daughter and I cry for me, for the person I have become and wonder why I let this happen. It’s all my fault
Dad comes back down the hall from his room and even though I am not looking I can hear the cocking of a gun. Zaire yells and throws my boot at Dad, knocking the gun out of his hand. It lands just inches from my unbroken fingers and they inch forward to grip the textured handle. I can feel the cold sureness of the trigger against my finger and I wonder if I can really do it. I open my eyes and take in the scene below me. Mom is still crying on the floor, Zaire is trying to fend off Dad and Alyx is unconscious near the front door. There is a spatter of blood on the door and it looks like Dad tried to put his head through the glass.
I stand up and rip the bandages from my arms—proud of where I have written “Love” on the right and “Fuck Up” on the left. I scream and scream and scream and pray they see me. I wish they would just stop, I wish this never happened, I want it to all go away but I am the cause. I point the gun at Dad and he slowly eases away from Zaire who is looking at me in shock. I have always hated guns and now, with the 300 Smith and Wesson in my hand even Mom stops her caterwauling. I aim carefully; making sure my father’s head is in my sights. I pull back the hammer, wondering if I can really do it. The moment seems to last forever as I aim and prepare for that final moment when life will change forever.
“I can’t tell if the girl in the mirror is me anymore, in this pit of bodies I don’t know that I care—just promise me one thing, promise me you won’t forget me.” I shout before turning the gun on myself.
“I’m sorry.” I whisper before pulling the trigger.
