Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred (2 page)

Dysfunctional? Um, yeah. But most people looking at our family
from the outside are totally clueless. Including Dad's best friend
Jimmy and even Uncle Garrett. Despite Uncle Garrett's flaws, I'm sure he has no idea that his younger brother has such an out-ofcontrol anger problem. Most people who know my dad think that
he's the "nicest guy in town." He manages Jackson's Tire Company
and always has a ready smile or goofy joke for everyone-everyone
who doesn't live inside this house, that is. And I'm sure that everyone just looks at our family and assumes everything's just fine and
dandy in here. Sure, we might not be impressive when it comes to
money, but we are all very adept at keeping up appearances. For
some reason that's very important to my dad.

My question is, what am I supposed to do with all this pain? I
mean I've got Caleb across the hall now, crying and swearing and
pounding on things. I've got my mom holed up in her room, eyes
glazed over by Xanax I'm sure, sitting in the little glider rocker next
to her bed, just staring at the tiny TV that sits on their bureau. I feel
like I'm going to burst.

Instead of returning to my room, I go into the bathroom that
Caleb and I share. We do our best not to fight over it like some of
my friends do with their siblings-at least not while Dad is around.
I sigh as I look into the mirror above the bathroom sink. My face,
as usual, is expressionless. Although the eyes would be a giveaway,
if anyone was really looking. To me they are two black holes. A
constant reminder of the deep hopelessness of my life. I push a
strand of straight dark hair out of my face. I've been growing my
bangs out, and they've reached that place where they're just in the
way. Sort of like me.

It won't be that long, and you can be out of this madhouse for
good. Recently I've been playing with the idea of graduating a year
early, getting out of here when I'm only seventeen. I've heard it can
be done.

The question is, can I really last that long? Every single day I tell myself I'm not going to do this again. I'm not going to give in one
more time. And some days I actually succeed. But on other days,
like today, it is impossible. The tightness inside my chest is painful
right now. And I wonder if a fairly healthy sixteen-year-old can have
a heart attack or maybe a stroke. Maybe that would be the answer.

For no particular reason, other than habit, I turn on the tap
water and let it just run into the sink. It's how I usually do this
thing. Maybe I figure the sound will camouflage what's really going
on in here. I don't know. Maybe the swooshing sound relaxes me.
Or maybe it's comforting to watch the water flow. Like, there's something that still works. But I just stand there and watch it running
down the sink. I don't wash my hands or brush my teeth or wash
my face. I simply stand there, hands planted on either side of the
sink, as I lean forward and stare at the water flowing from the faucet
and going down the drain. I'm sure my dad would think this was
not only incredibly stupid but very wasteful. I'm sure if I were ever
caught, I would get a sharp-tongued lecture on just how much he
pays for the water and electric bill every month and how selfish
and ignorant I am. Normally, I do try to be frugal and respectful of
his "hard-earned" money, but there are times, like now, when I just
don't care.

I don't know how long I stand there wasting valuable water, but
finally I turn off the faucet and take a deep breath. I wish I could
stop this thing, but I still ache inside. Instead of diminishing, the
pain only seems to grow, pushing against my insides until I don't see
how I can possibly contain it anymore.

I open the bottom drawer on my side of the bathroom cabinet.
It's where I keep my "feminine" products-a place I can be certain
that my dad or brother would never go looking. As for my mother,
well, she would never think to go looking for anything of mine in the first place. She can hardly find her slippers in the morning.

I take out a box of tampons and turn it over. A sliver of silver
glints from where the cardboard overlaps on the bottom. I carefully
slide out the blade and hold it between my thumb and forefinger. It's
an old-fashioned, two-sided kind of blade. I swiped one from Caleb
when he first started shaving with my grandpa's old brass razor set.
It didn't take my little brother very long to realize that there are
better shaving instruments available, so he never notices when a
blade goes missing from the little cardboard box in the back of his
drawer. Not that I've had to replace many blades during these past
six months. As long as you wash and dry them and keep them in a
safe place, they can last quite a while.

At first I thought I would limit my cutting to my left arm. But
after a few weeks, I started running out of places to cut. And that's
when I realized I'm fairly coordinated when it comes to cutting with
my left hand. My right arm has a series of evenly spaced stripes
to prove this. I push up the sleeve of my shirt and examine the
stripes with regular interest, running my fingers over the ones that
are healed, barely touching the ones that are still healing. Each one
could tell its own story. Okay, the stories would be pretty similar,
but each scar is unique. The most recent cut was only two days ago.
It's still pretty sore, but at least it's not infected.

Already I am beginning to feel relief. I have no idea why. But it's
always like this. Just the security of holding the blade in my hand,
just knowing that I am in control now ... it's almost enough. But
not quite.

I lower the blade to the pale skin on the inside of my arnn, and
using a sharp corner of the blade, I quickly make a two-inch slash.
I know not to go too deep. And when I'm in control, like now, I can
do it just right. And just like that, I'm done. I hardly feel the pain of the cut at all. It's like it doesn't even hurt.

I watch with familiar fascination as the blood oozes out in a
clean, straight line. There is something reassuring about seeing my
bright-red blood exposed like this. It's like this sign that I'm still
alive and, weird as it sounds, that someday everything will be okay.
Although the euphoria that follows the cutting never lasts as long as
I wish it would, it's a quick fix that mostly works.

As usual, I feel better as I press a wad of toilet paper onto the
wound. For the moment, this cut absorbs all my attention and
emotional energy. It blocks out what I am unable to deal with. And
for a while I am convinced that I will actually survive my life.

And, hey, this isn't as bad as doing drugs, like some kids do. Or
getting drunk, like my dad is doing right now. Or just checking out,
like my mom did last year and continues to do on an off-and-on
basis.

Am I proud of my behavior? Of course not. But for the time
being, it's all I have to keep me from falling. So don't judge me.

I STARTED CUTTING 11\ST WINTER WHEN EVERYONE WAS WEARING LONG-SLEEVED
sweaters and sweatshirts and jackets. It wasn't any big deal to cover
up the scars back then. I guess I never thought about what I'd do
once the warmer weather came on. I mean, its not like you plan
these things in advance. So here it is, May, and I'm still sporting
long-sleeved shirts. Like what choice do I have?

"Aren't you hot in that shirt?" asks my best friend, Abby,
as we take our lunches outside to eat in the courtyard. Some of
our friends are already gathered on the concrete steps in a sunny
southern corner.

"No," I lie. "And don't you get sick of asking me that same question every day?"

"I don't ask that every day"

"Okay. Every other day. But seriously, don't you think I can
decide whether I'm hot or not?"

"I think you're hot, Ruth," says Finney with a cheesy grin.

I roll my eyes at him as I sit on the concrete step, balancing my
tray on my knees. "Thanks a lot, Finney" I say in my best sarcastic
tone. Now, most people think of Finney as a total nerd. And I guess
he sort of is with his bad haircut and wire-rimmed glasses. Hes
also pretty scrawny and actually uses a plastic pocket protector and multicolored highlighter pens, which he uses for specific reasons
that only Finney understands. A stranger might even assume that
he's retarded or, to be more PC, "mentally challenged." But he's not.
He just looks like he doesn't have much going on. Except brains.
That and a slightly whacked-out sense of humor.

"No problem," he shoots back at me. "And like I said last week,
Ruth, I'd still love to take you to the prom. I'd be proud to be your
man, babe."

I exhale loudly, showing exasperation. "And like I told you last
week, Finney, I'd still rather be stripped naked and tied down to an
anthill."

"And like I told you," he winks at me, "I'm up for that option
too."

Everyone laughs and Abby changes the subject. I listen kind of
absently, watching as my friends so easily interact with each other.
Sometimes, like right now, it feels like I'm not really here. I suppose
it was Abby's comment on my long-sleeved shirt that set me apart,
reminded me of my difference. Times like this make me feel like I'm
on the outside looking in. Or maybe invisible.

I have to admit, at least to myself, that I am hot-not hot as in
good-looking, but as in, I think it's nearly ninety degrees out here in
the direct sun. Everyone else has on T-shirts and tank tops and even
shorts. But here I sit, wearing what's become my uniform: a longsleeved shirt with sleeves that nearly cover my hands, tan corduroy
overalls with a hole in the left knee, and my old Doc Martens sandals
that I've had for like a hundred years now. My dark hair is crookedly
parted in the middle and braided into two long braids that reach
nearly to my waist. I used to hate it back in grade school when Mom
put my hair into what other kids called "pigtails." I was already well
aware of her Native American heritage-but I didn't feel the need to go around advertising it. And whenever I wore braids, Brett Hamlin
would tease me. He'd pull on a tail and call me "injun" or "squaw
girl" or "red face," and I didn't really appreciate the attention.

I scoot over to catch some shade and perhaps blend into the
wall. I do feel a little self-conscious about my lack of style today. It's
not like I think this is my best look. But it's all I'm able to manage
on some days. Like today. Thankfully, my friends haven't boycotted
my friendship based on my appearance yet.

I mean, it's not exactly like I hang with the fashionable crowd
anyway. You need lots of money and even more superficiality to do
that. No, I prefer to hang with what I like to consider the "artsy"
group. We are involved in drama, art, journalism, or something else
that loosely qualifies as artsy. Or else, like Abby, who is challenged
to draw a circle, we're connected to someone who is artsy In her
case that would be me.

I'm pretty much into art and journalism. And, according to Mrs.
Napier, my graphic-design teacher, I may have some talent, perhaps
even "a future." Of course, when I mentioned this at home, my dad
said there is no future in art. Just like that-case closed. Naturally, I
didn't argue with him. I mean, it's not like I need to go around looking for disagreements with him.

"How about you, Ruth? Are you ready?"

I look up to see that it's this new guy, Glen Something-or-Other,
talking to me now. I'm sure my face looks totally blank. "Huh?" I
say, adding more dumbness to the increasingly pathetic image.

"Earth to Ruth," teases Abby as she gives me an elbow.

"The art fair tomorrow night," explains Glen. "Have you got
your stuff all matted and framed yet?"

I shake my head. "No, I'll probably have to stay after school and
finish it up today."

"Me too," he says. "Maybe you can help show me where stuff is
in the art room."

"You have some pieces to show?" I can't hide my surprise. "I
mean, you just started school here last week."

"Mr. Pollinni said I can show some of the things I was working
on before 1 transferred."

"Cool," I tell him. "That seems only fair." Of course, I don't
admit to him or anyone else that this news concerns me quite a bit.
I mean, I don't like to sound conceited, but I thought I had a pretty
good chance of getting a prize or two for my own pieces. I even
hoped that maybe my parents would show up and be impressed
when they saw a blue ribbon hanging from one of my acrylics. It
could happen.

Now I'm not so sure. I mean, even though Glen's only been here
a week, I've already noticed him working on a great-looking sketch.
I could tell right away that this guy is really talented. Probably way
more talented than me.

"I gotta go," I say as I rise to my shabbily shod feet.

"But there's still a few minutes," says Abby

"I know," I say. "But I just remembered I need to make a phone
call."

"A phone call?" She looks skeptical. "Who to? And, anyway,
just use my cell, Ruth. That is, if I can find it in here." She's rooting
around in her oversized bag now.