2004:
At fourteen, I am a professional at hiding my emotions. I can go days with fake smiles and appropriate frowns. Even better, I can go days without feeling anything. I don’t feel anymore. I never feel happy, I don’t feel sad. I don’t feel anything. And really, I don’t remember the last time I did. I don’t honestly know what’s worse; not being able to feel or being hyperactively aware of how empty I feel.
I spend my days - and nights too, I suppose - that I’m not with a friend of mine in dirty clubs, dancing to loud beats that make my ears ring. By now, security has stopped narrowing their eyes when I flash my - convincingly real - ID. They barely ask me if I’m sure this is my age anymore. They just step aside and let me into their club.
I went to my first show a couple months ago, on a night that I was stumbling around for a new place to hang out. There were probably thirty people in the room to see this no-name band, all moving around in a tight group despite all the room on the dance floor. I’d paid the dues to get in the door and pushed myself into the middle of the crowd. And while I was a pro at club scenes, I’d never been to anything live before. And I fell in love. I loved the way that I was forced to jump when the people around me did, or how I was shoved too roughly for my fourteen year old body to handle. But most of all, I loved the loss of control I had over my own body.
I’ve since lost the memory of what band I saw, but I haven’t forgotten the way the rough crowd left bruises on my hips and arms from the shoving. Or the way I was in love with them. I ached for more bruises, for more pain. The pain was real, and it made me feel less hollow. I’d felt something real, which was something that hadn’t really happened in a long time. The lust I had for music after that show had more to do with the pain than the beats or bands. The more shows I went to, the more I ached for that feeling.
And I guess that’s what led to last night. I was sprawled across my bathroom floor, a blade I’d snapped out of my shaving razor balanced delicately between my thumb and my index finger. I was in a trance, enamored by the way the metal sparkled in the florescent light. It was beautiful. It was enchanting. The thought of the pain that this would bring me sent shivers down my spine. I’d never done this before, but as I allowed the blade to slice my skin, I knew this wouldn’t be the only time.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the wall. And when the rush from the first cut calmed, I made another before I could stop myself. And eventually another, and another, until there are ten horizontal lines running across my forearm. And then I was done. I’d cleaned up my mess and stopped the bleeding, but I didn’t bother to put on a bandage. It’s sick, but they’re beautiful. Like the bruises, I was in love with them.
This morning, as I’d pulled my hoodie on, I was insanely aware of the way the cotton rubbed against the fresh cuts. It’d sent a sharp pain over my wrist and it took my breath away. And each time I moved, it would happen again. God, I could get used to this. I never want this feeling, this real feeling, to go away.
When I get to school, Alexis is waiting at our lockers. Mine is only four apart from hers, a freak accident from our usual alphabetic assignments. And when she sees me, she instantly smiles and goes into a hyperactive rush of the latest gossip on the boy she’s in love with this week. To which I smile and nod at the appropriate times. It’s not that I’m ignoring her, I just don’t want to waste a second of this pain.
I met Alexis when I was six, the first day of first grade. She was new to the school, her family having moved to Chicago only a few weeks before the new school year began. I would later find out that she’s albino, but back then I’d been amazed by her absolutely white skin and hair, and most of all, her eyes and their pink hue. She looked as though she’d lived in a place where she’d never seen the sunlight - you know, somewhere with igloos and polar bears - but the Southern drawl that spilled out of her mouth verified her Texas roots.
Now, at fourteen, we are nearly inseparable. Her Texas accent has faded into a dialect she only uses when she’s sleepy or extremely angry. It’d only taken a couple of months before she’d adopted my Midwestern accent, one with long a’s and over-pronounced vowels. Fortunately for me, she didn’t pick up the speech problems I’ve had since childhood that leave me embarrassed when I can’t pronounce the ‘th’ sounds in words.
In a way, I’ve always been jealous of her. Especially when I was younger and would tag along to the mall with her and her mother. You see, while she looks different than anyone else, Alexis is beautiful. Even from a young age, people in public would double take to get another glance at her. Which, I can only assume is why her mother started entering in pageants when she was as young as three.
Alexis has a stage presence that you can’t forget. She’s bubbly, innocent, graceful. She’s quick to answer questions in a way that seems entirely real, and talented when she gets up to play piano for her talent. For years, I have stood side stage to cheer her on. I’ve been the girl she squeals and jumps with when she takes home trophies, and the girl that tells her how ugly the other girls are when she doesn’t win. The latter is a rarity, however, because judges fall in love with her. I could only hope that I find something that gives me the happiness that is so apparent on her face when she walks off stage.
Alexis wants to be a model. And honestly, I think she’s going to accomplish exactly that. Alexis is gorgeous. Honestly. Me? I’m not so much. Alexis has a thin, curvy, feminine body and looks fabulous in the girly clothes she wears. However, I have a thin, straight body that I frequently cover up with t-shirts and hoodies.
But don’t get me wrong, I love Alexis. It’s just that sometimes she doesn’t get it. She still has both of her parents. She didn’t lose her mom like I did - which is a topic we never discuss - and her sister still lives at home. Her dad still talks to her every day and picks her up from school when it’s cold outside. Basically, she has a normal family where mine crumbled long ago. And yeah, you could say that I’m jealous.
I absentmindedly shrug out of my hoodie as she’s talking, shoving it into my bag. She stops mid-sentence and her eyes scan my arms. She’s silent, and meeting my eyes, quickly. I avert my eyes, trying to cross my arms and cover it up, but it’s too late. She grabs my wrist, holding it out so she can examine it. The disgust on her face sends a wave of panic down my spine. She’s ruining it. She can’t see how stunningly beautiful the red lines are, and she’s ruining how good it makes me feel.
“Kate, did you do this to yourself?” She asks, trying to meet my eyes, but I keep my gaze away. “Because you know my mom deals with people who do this to themselves. And god, those people are crazy. Like really messed up in the head. And that’s not you Ka—”
“Shut up!” I jerk my arm away from her, grabbing my hoodie and shoving my arms back into it. I feel sick. And wrong. And worse, crazy. I’m not any of those things, I swear. It’s just that the pain makes me feel alive. And I haven’t in so long.
“I just never thought that you…” She shakes her head in disbelief. “After what happened to your mom..”
“Stop,” I clench my teeth and dig my fingernails into my palms. I can’t bare to listen to her anymore. I feel like all of the blood has rushed to my head and it’s this horrid pounding and I feel worse than I did before I cut myself. “I don’t want to hear this.”
Alexis grabs my shoulder, leaving me frozen in my place. “I’m sorry,” She blurts out, and her eyes - which, thanks to contacts, are now a bright blue - blaze into my own. “I know that we don’t talk about that. It’s just that I can’t believe you would do something like that after..”
“We’re not going to talk about it, Lex.”
“Do you need to talk to someone? The counsellor? My mom? She knows everything that happened to you and she deals with this…”
“Are you an idiot?” I blurt out, and she stares at me stunned. “Your mom can’t know about this. No one can know about this.”
“But—”
“No one. Promise me,” I grab her by the shoulders and look her in the eyes. “Promise.”
“I promise,” She whispers, tears forming in her eyes and my own. “I just don’t want to see you hurt.”
I hug her, which is something we rarely do. Alexis and I aren’t touchy-feely friends, opting out of hugs and kisses on the cheek since it makes us both uncomfortable. So it surprises me when she wraps her arms around me and doesn’t let go for a long time. I wish I could tell her that I’m not hurting and mean it, but I can’t lie to her. Instead I say nothing. When she pulls away, there’s no trace of the tears that were on her cheeks before. But I’m standing there blubbering like an idiot. Alexis picks up her backpack and looks away while I wipe my tears on my sleeve, almost soaking it.
“Do you want to come to my house after school?” Alexis says, rocking back and forth on her feet. Another thing we don’t really discuss is emotions, or at least not real ones. Alexis was there for me when my sister left, and I was there for her when her dog died. But about this, these emotions, she has no idea how I feel and I won’t tell her.
“Sure,” I say, my sobbing coming to a halt. “I need to do my math homework.”
“Do you want to stay for dinner?”
I nod. I love the way that her family has dinners together. And that her mom has a warm, home-cooked meal every night that isn’t too salty or too sweet. And I love the way that her house always smells faintly of cookies that her mom bakes when she can’t sleep at night. Alexis’ family almost always feeds me dinner, and the leftovers are always wrapped in foil and sent home with me for my father.
A few years ago, I was bitter about the way that this would happen. The way that I would have a place set at their dinner table before I was even asked if I wanted to join them. It was as though they were taking pity on me, trying to replace the family I’d lost. And I didn’t want a new mom. I didn’t need a new family. But then I came to the conclusion that if they didn’t take care of me, I didn’t know who would.
It’s not that my father doesn’t love me, because I know he does. It’s just that things are well, complicated. He can’t get over what happened to our family, to his wife. He’s heartbroken, as I like to all it. Stuck in feelings. He functions at a basic, unemotional level. He gets up and takes a shower. He gets dressed and knocks on my bedroom door to make sure I’m awake for school. He drinks exactly a cup and a half of coffee - black - while he skims the headline. Then he goes to work. He gets home around nine, scans the fridge for food, and then goes to bed. And repeat. And it breaks my heart to see him so sad.
It’s snowing when we leave school. When I was younger, I adored the snow. I loved playing in not only it, but all kinds of weather. Now, it brings back awful memories that I can’t explain to anyone. The feelings that make me want to throw up and ache to punish myself. They’re feelings that are so burned into my brain, not even amnesia would give me the gift of forgetting.
I’m not sure if Alexis sees the look on my face or just knows, but she’s pulling out her phone and giving her dad a call before we can even step foot outside. I’m thankful. Her hand finds mine, clutching it. I don’t really hold her hand, ever. Like I said, we’re not that kind of friends. But I can’t deny the calm it brings me, and I’m thankful that she doesn’t let go. However, when her father pulls up, Alexis drops my hand and takes off for the black car. She climbs into the front seat, leaving the backseat open for me. I avert my eyes when she leans across the car to kiss her father on the cheek and pretend to be more involved with buckling my seatbelt than I actually am. The last thing I need is one more reason to be jealous of her.
“Hi Katie,” Her father says, peering at me through the rearview mirror with a smile on his face. “Did you have a good day.”
No. That’s what I want to say, but instead I let a fake smile spread across my features. “It was good, I got a 90 on my math test.”
“Good job!” He flashes a genuine smile my way before he turns to Alexis. “And how did you do, Alexis?”
Alexis slumps, looking as though she’d rather disappear. Math has never been her strong point, and instantly I feel guilty for even bringing up the subject. “I got a 68.”
“Did you study?” Her father’s voice is thick with disappointment.
“No,” She admits, her voice small.
“And why not?”
“I had pageant practice that night.”
He sighs, looking away from her. “And what is our rule, young lady?” I squirm. It makes me uncomfortable when he scolds her in front of me. I can’t even pretend to be looking out the window, we’re not moving yet.
“I have to have all A’s and B’s to participate,” She murmurs. I can’t see her, but I can only imagine the look on her face. I know how long she’s been preparing for this. And it feels like acid in my stomach, the guilt that I feel for this. Have I mentioned I can never say anything right?
