Scars (13 page)

“Kendra.” Meghan takes hold of my hand again, clasps it in both of hers. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Yes, but—” I bite my lip. “If I show you, you can’t tell anyone. Promise?”

“I promise.”

Trusting her scares me, but that’s what love is all about. At least I think it is.

I undo the button on my sleeve, rolling it up to show the gauze beneath, greyish white and bloodstained.

“Jesus,” Meghan says, her voice choked with tears.

“Don’t look yet. Just give me a minute.”

Meghan closes her eyes.

I turn away from her. I don’t want her to see me do this. I unroll the gauze and stuff it in my pocket. Then I tug at the edge of one of the white pads. It sticks painfully to my arm, pulling at the skin. I grit my teeth.

There’s no pain when I cut, just the easing of fear inside me. The pain comes after, when I’m finished. But it’s a fast, clean pain that shuts down everything I need it to. I expect it; I even want it. But this pain feels messy and slow, and it’s not strong enough to do anything but make me hurt. And I don’t like hurting.

I hold my breath and yank hard. The pad comes off, taking pieces of brownish yellow scabs with it, leaving open, bloody wounds. I yank the second pad off and turn around.

Meghan’s eyes are already open. I slowly stretch my arm out toward her.

I can hear her breath catch in her throat.

The wounds I made the other night are scabbing over, ugly soft yellow crusts working to join the puffy, reddened flesh back together. My arm is a grotesque patchwork of unbroken flesh, hardening scabs, and shiny new red strips of skin—and now, small, bloody mouths where some scabs got ripped off.

Meghan covers her mouth. “Why did you do this?”

“Why do you sleep around?” I snap—and then wish I could take it back. I reach out my hand. “I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not….” I look at the ground. “Damn. I was scared you were judging me.”

“I’m not. And you’re not the one who deserves to be hurt, Kendra.
He
is.”

“That’s not why. I’m not punishing myself. Not most of the time, anyway. I cut because it helps me.”

Meghan frowns, looking puzzled, and I know she wants to understand.

“Cutting stops the memories when I need them to stop. It bleeds the pain away when I can’t take it any more. It gives me relief. Lets me breathe.”

“It numbs you?”

“Yeah. Emotionally, anyway. At least for a while.”

Meghan moistens her lips. “I understand that. Fucking boys numbs me, too. I just wish you didn’t have to hurt yourself this way.”

“Yeah.” I twist my shoelace into knots. “Still think you want to get involved with me someday? I’m more messed up than you know.”

“I like you for you. This doesn’t change how I feel. Besides, all I see here is pain. And that’s something we both know a lot about.”

I can’t speak, or I’ll burst into tears. I take the gauze out of my pocket.

Meghan stops me. “Can I touch them? The healed ones, I mean,” she asks softly.

Her eyes are a deep, clear green, and there’s nothing hard in them. I lean closer, and she runs her fingers over my arm, staying away from the open wounds. The scars are like a crazy quilt, running in all directions—some are raised like welts, some are sunken beneath. Some spread across my skin like narrow leaves, while others are slender nips in my flesh. They shine brightly where nothing should, taking my breath away.

I stare at the bright red welts of skin. I knew they were there. I’d watched the open wounds change to scabs, then the scabs eventually disappear or be torn off to leave these red marks of pain. But I hadn’t thought about them beyond that. I hadn’t thought about them being permanent.

“I almost envy you your scars,” Meghan says. “They’re something visible, something you can point to, to show how much you hurt. Something that lasts longer than a bruise. I don’t have that.”

“I never thought about it that way,” I say slowly. “I guess they’re like the marks
he
never left on my skin.”

Meghan runs her fingers over my scars again. No one’s ever touched them before. No one’s ever seen them, except me. It doesn’t feel as shameful as I thought it would. It almost feels like a relief, to have someone know—and to have that person not judge me.

Meghan lets go of my arm.

I slap the pads back on and start rolling the gauze over my arm; it’s awkward, working with only one hand.

“Let me do that,” Meghan says. She takes the gauze from me and wraps my arm, her movements soft and gentle.

I feel almost taken care of. Like she cares about me, doesn’t want to hurt it. Doesn’t want to hurt me.

I roll my sleeve back down and button it tightly. “I hate
him
,” Meghan says, gripping her knees.

“I hate him more than ever.”

“Meghan—the cutting helps me. It really does.”

“I know,” she says with a sad smile. “I know.”

She stands up, and we walk out of the park together, holding hands. Some people stare at us, but I don’t care. I feel too happy.

“I had a good time with you today,” Meghan says.

“I did, too.”

We stop under a tree at the edge of the sidewalk. People pass in front of us, heading in and out of the Java Cup, carrying cups of coffee and bags of pastries.

I trace my shoe along the thick, ridged root of the tree. Its old, sturdy branches give us shade. Meghan leans toward me and kisses me softly on the lips. I tremble inside.

She pulls back. “Was that okay?”

“Of course!”

I grin at her. “I love it.”

“Even though I want to go slow?”

“You can take all the time you need,” I say. “I want this to feel right for both of us.”

Meghan touches my cheek. “I don’t think you know how special you are—”

A boy on a skateboard skids to a stop in front of us. “Hey!”

We jump apart.

The boy—he can’t be more than twelve, maybe thirteen—stands there with one hip jutting out, a sneer on his face. His spiky blond hair looks hard, like it has too much gel in it. “One of you Kendra Marshall?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say cautiously. “Why?”

“Got something for you,” he says, pulling a narrow box out from under his arm.

“Who’s it from?” I step back and away from him.

The boy shrugs. “Some guy in a suit. Paid me twenty bucks to give it to you.”

It’s
him
. It has to be. Dizziness whooshes through my head, and the sidewalk tilts crazily beneath me.

Meghan clenches her fists “What guy? Show me!”

“Uh-uh. Not until you take the package. That was the deal.” He thrusts the package at me. I catch it reflexively. I want to throw it away from me, but instead I stand there clutching it, my hands shaking.

The boy starts to roll off on his skateboard.

Meghan grabs him by the arm. “Not so fast. Show me this guy.”

“Hey—what you getting so upset about? And what’s in it for me?”

“Knowing you did the right thing. That guy’s harassing her.”

“How was I supposed to know? He looked like a decent guy. Said it was a birthday present. He wanted to surprise her.”

Meghan rolls her eyes. “And you believed him?”

“Hey—he gave me a twenty,” the boy says, flicking the bill out of his pocket and smirking.

“Great.” Meghan snatches the bill from him. “I’ll give it back to you as soon as you show me the guy.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Show me. Then you’ll get it back.”

“All right, all right—” He picks up his skateboard and turns to look. “He’s not there any more.”

“Just show me where he was. And you can tell me what he looked like.” She touches my arm. “I’ll be right back. You okay for a minute?”

“Sure.” My head feels so light and empty that it doesn’t feel connected to the rest of my body. I watch them go off, then I look at the box.
He
found me again.
He
found me just like he said he would.

Even though I don’t want to, even though I’m afraid to look, I’m tearing open the box as if my hands belong to someone else.

A single white handkerchief and a crudely sharpened palette knife lie nestled in red tissue paper. I feel a strange movement in my head, a kind of shifting. Then suddenly, desperately, I need to cut.

I burst through the doors of the Java Cup, run past the startled customers, my paintings jeering at me from the walls. I dash into the rest room, tear the blade from beneath my sock. Almost before I shut and lock the door, I slash myself over and over again, the blade slicing through me until the sink is splattered with blood.

I set the blade down with a clatter.

This is crazy.

I begin to shiver—great, bone-crushing shivers that come from deep inside. Images, like photos, keep appearing in my mind—of me cutting into my arm, of me slicing right through the veins in my wrist. I wonder how quickly I’ll die, and whether it’ll hurt much.

Die?

I pack toilet paper against my arm and sink to the cold floor. I can almost hear Carolyn asking what set this off.

“I’m so scared,” I say, as if she’s here to listen. “He’s coming after me like he said he would!” My teeth chatter.

I reach up for my blade, the bloody toilet paper falling on the tiles. Shadows flash like lightning through my mind.

A door, snapping shut behind me. His hand, pressing my fingers around a knife. His breath against my cheek, against my ear.

“You will cut to keep silent. You will cut to forget. And if you tell, you will cut to kill yourself.”

Then the shadows, the words are gone.

I lean back against the wall, shaken.

“It’s okay.” I breathe out, my lungs quivering. “He was trying to scare me, to keep me quiet. That’s all.”

What if you’re wrong?
a voice whispers inside me.
What if he tries to rape you again? Wouldn’t it be better to die now, than to let that happen?

I stare at the wet blade. It would be so easy to cut a little deeper—

“No!”

I throw the blade down. “I want to live.”

Another flash.

Blinding light in my eyes. A handkerchief, falling to the floor. A large hand, gripping my wrist. A hand I think I recognize.

“Stop it, just stop it!” I scream. I slam the door of my mind on the image, shut my mind against the pain.

Carolyn. I’ve got to call Carolyn
.

I fumble for my cell and pull it out of my pocket. My hands are shaking so much that I can barely flip open the phone. I speed dial Carolyn, not knowing what I’m going to say. I just know I need to hear her voice.

“Hello—”

“Carolyn!” I cry.

“You have reached the voicemail of Carolyn Fairchild. Please leave a message at the sound of the tone—”

I almost hang up, but I wait until the beep sounds, then clear my throat, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel. “Carolyn? It’s Kendra. Something happened, and I really need to talk to you. He sent me another message—” My voice chokes off.

I hang up before I start sobbing. God, I’m a mess.

“Kendra! Kendra? Are you in there?” It’s Meghan. She’s pounding on the door. “Kendra, let me in!”

“Just a minute!” I stand up shakily, then wipe my blade and tuck it away.

“Open up the door—now!” Her voice grows fainter, like she’s turned her head away. “Hey! Could I get some help over here? My friend’s in trouble!”

“No, just hang on!” I yell. Hot blood curls down my arm in long, thin streams. I can’t let her see me like this. I won’t put her through that. I grab more toilet paper off the roll and press it tight against my arm.

“Kendra, open the door
now
! Or I’ll get somebody to open it up!”

I can tell she means it.

I punch my thigh. I don’t know what to do.

“Kendra!”

I turn the handle and open the door a crack, peeking out.

Meghan shoves her way past me, knocking my arm, and slams the door behind her. Then she notices the blood: “Oh, my God. Oh, my God!” It’s everywhere—spattered on the floor and on the sink, wads of reddened toilet paper clumped on the tiles. Blood trickles down my arm.

“I didn’t want you to see this,” I say. My teeth are chattering again.

“But I did. I have. And you know what, Kendra? I’m not running away.”

I don’t know how she knows exactly the right thing to say, but it calms me and lets me take a breath.

“We’ve got to get you to a doctor,” Meghan says.

I shake my head. “No doctor.” There’d be no way I could hide my cutting if a doctor saw it.

“But you can’t leave your arm like this! You need stitches!”

I step back. “I’ve cut this deep before. It always heals just fine.”

“God, Kendra—”

“No doctor!”

“All right, all right. Where’s your bandages?”

I point to the clump of grey bandage on the floor with the scab-encrusted pads.

“You don’t have anything else?”

“No. I didn’t think I was going to cut. It was just going to be a lovely day—with you.”
And now I’ve ruined it all.

“Okay. Hold on. I’ll go get something.” She grips my shoulder. “Stay here. You promise?”

“Promise,” I whisper. There’s no way I’m leaving the bathroom with my arm like this. No way I’m going to let anyone else see it.

“Fine. I’ll be right back—five minutes, ten at the most. There’s a drugstore around the corner. Just don’t move. And hold your arm up. I think that’s supposed to help slow down the bleeding.”

I feel silly, but I do it anyway.

Meghan reaches for the door handle, then turns back to look at me. “It was from him, wasn’t it? The package?”

I nod.

“I’ll kill him,” she says, and leaves.

I lock the door behind her.

“No, you don’t want to go in there,” I hear Meghan say. “My friend’s vomiting. She’s got diarrhea, too. Everything. Try the men’s bathroom.”

I freeze until the voices move away, then grab some clean toilet paper and start wiping the blood off the floor and sink. It smears over the tiles and drips from my arm as I clean. I scrub harder. My stomach feels queasy, like I might really vomit.
I can’t believe I did this. Can’t believe how out of control I got.