we whisper amongst ourselves

Sometimes, when it’s late at night, the dark speaks to her.

She lies in bed, curling into herself, watching the headlights from cars passing through, and sometimes listening to the sorrowful song of the police sirens that wail in the night, lonely.  She keeps one curtain pulled back to let the light flood in for those few seconds.  It gives her some sort of hope as it flashes across her eyes, wide open and searching.  She keeps her dark eyes posted on one spot, and she never moves but to blink.

Her hands are balled up in her chest, fingers gripping her arms so tightly they leave crescent shapes behind, fading out to white.  She wonders if they will ever bleed.

The position falls for a moment as she allows herself a moment to breathe, and one moment is all it takes.  Her hand brushes her thigh, feeling the thin, bumpy lines that map her life, her memories, her existence.  She feels the pain through the scarred skin, as if it were just yesterday.  She remembers why each one came to be.  She remembers how much each one came to bleed.  She can even remember which ones she pressed against her palm and screamed from the blood that stained her hand rusty.

And in the instant of that moment, she drives her fingernails into the bed of scars, eyes forcing open and mouth wide, with strangled screams that she contains within her throat.  She can feel the blood from the past, the blood from now, oozing around her fingers, warm and sticky.

It doesn’t hurt.  Oh god, it doesn’t even hurt anymore.  Did it ever even hurt from the beginning?  

Yes, she thinks.  It has always hurt.  It always does end up hurting.  The names they call out, the laughs, the terror in her voice as she asks them to stop.  The pain of being ugly, inside and out, of never being good enough to be a real part of anything.  Yes, she nods.  It does hurt.  She digs her nails deeper into her biting flesh, waiting for the numb to start.  Waiting for something that won’t come this time.

“I wish I could help you…  I really like you.  You aren’t like the other girls.”

“You’re so pretty!  God, I wish I could look like you!”

“Girl, you are not even fat.  Stop fishing for compliments.”

“I think we should’ve been together.”

“She’s just… better.  Her dream is to become a model and… well, she has the body and looks for it.  You aren’t… bitter, are you?”

“I think you should know that no one cares what you do anymore.  You’re a liar, you’re a freakin’ cutter.  You’re a suicidal freak, and no one really even cares.  So what if you kill yourself?  No.  One.  Cares.  You monster.”

“No one is going to want to have sex with a girl like you.  With scars, even less.”

“I cut again last night.  Look, one new one, right there.  Everyone, come see!  I’m a cutter!  I’m so sorry!”

“You’re such a w***e.”

“Are you… sane?  Like, I heard that you like… harm yourself.  Cut yourself.”

“You don’t bruise because you’re a fat chick, hah.”

“Anorexia?  Please, stop whining for attention.  You can’t have an eating disorder.  You weigh waaaaay too much.  You’re a fatty!  Now, look at her, all skin and bones.  She really has an eating disorder.  See the difference?”

“You’re such a fat freak.”

She lies in bed, curled into herself, listening to the whispers in the dark.  Memories replay in her head as her fingernails sink deeper into the flesh of her upper thigh and blood pools drips down, onto her bed sheets.  It’s not enough.  It’s never enough for her.  She reaches over, under her pillow, deep into the crack between the wall and the bed and plucks out her razor, stained and sharp.

And she digs new memories, one by one by one.  She carves out yet another road down the map of her body, head sunken into the pillow, sobs racking her chest.  She carves into the recesses of her thigh and hip the words, “SHE’LL ALWAYS BE BETTER THAN YOU,” slowly, carefully, painfully.  The sharp, incessant pain that makes her choke on her tears and fold herself even further into the bed.

She’s bloody and broken and still breathing, and she hates herself.

With a shaky laugh, she whispers, “Happy New Year, Taylor.”

Reviews

[Lina Grey]

This is like my childhood. What awful people, what sad fate. I feel angry at those people, and sorry for her. Sorry she had to go through this, you had to. An incredible story, well written imagery and pain here. good job.

[Aerosol4Brains]

Yew have no idea how much yew described my life. I commend yew. I
I don't feel so alone anymore.

[Hey Hey Renee]

Thank you :)

[Brandon Wilson]

This story makes me feel, I feel sad and angry after reading it that people are treated like that. You did a very good job explaining the way she feels and whats going on inside her. I like the imagery you use to describe how she holds herself and watches the cars go by. Well done, Bravo.

[Hey Hey Renee]

Thank you so much :)

[Coyote Poetry]

The story is very good. You went to many places. The story open the door to question. Cutting, confident and life. I had to read a second time. I enjoyed the complete story. Had a real life feel to it. Thank you for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote

[Hey Hey Renee]

Thank you :)