It’s a lecture I’ve heard one too many times before and listening to her now, I wonder if she ever gets as tired of giving it as I get of hearing it. “I don’t need a car.” I don’t want the car to be yet another way for Tim to manipulate me. I want to give him as little control over my life as I can from now until graduation in June. I’ve been waiting. Biding my time until I finish high school. I have SATs in just a few months. That’s all I need to apply to colleges for early acceptance. Any liberal arts college, as long as it is as far away from here as possible is what I dream of. I just need to wait a little longer. “Can I head over to Mallory’s house after school?” Taking a few mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, I grab my wheat toast and come to my feet. “We have a sociology project to work on.” I look at her, waiting for an answer.
“That should be okay. Just be home in time for dinner.”
“I will.”
I’m out of the kitchen and heading toward the back patio after we say our good-byes. My school and canvas bags are waiting for me by the French doors. The bike isn’t anything special. I got it at the thrift store on Main sophomore year for twenty-five dollars. It needed a new chain and air in the tires before I could ride it. It took watching a few YouTube videos to figure out how to replace the chain and filling the tires had been a no-brainer. It’s served me pretty well so far. Setting my canvas bag inside the teal wicker basket I attached myself, I slide the straps of my backpack onto my shoulders before pulling the bike away from the side wall of the house. I use my Converse-covered toe to kick away the kickstand and slide my leg on the opposite end to hop onto the seat. Brigham High is roughly a twenty-minute ride from my house by car. It takes me ten minutes longer with the bike.
The day drags, not surprising considering it’s Monday. Getting back into the weekday flow doesn’t kick in until after lunch.
The first warning bell for fifth period rings just as I enter biology class. Walking down the aisle bisecting the twelve black-topped tables with faucets and sinks at the center of each, I head to my assigned seat in the third row on the left side of the room. Sliding my bag on to the floor next to my chair, I take the seat closest to the window. Mallory isn’t here yet but I know she won’t mind. She prefers the aisle seat anyway. According to her, it makes it easier for Mr. Hammond to check her out. She has a thing for our biology teacher. But then that could be said of most of the girls at school. I guess you could call Mr. Hammond handsome, if you are into the all-American, blue-eyed, blond-haired sort of look. It’s not my type. I don’t think I have a type. But then my mind swiftly evokes a pair of intense gray eyes and I don’t really know what it means. A frown pulls my brows together as I try to work out the implication, except the loud ring of the second warning bell accompanied by Mr. Hammond’s voice saves me from delving any deeper than I feel comfortable with.
Fifteen minutes into class and I’m wondering where Mallory is when the door opens and she walks in. In typical Mallory fashion, what she has on barely constitutes as clothes. The black and white Converse low-tops and my track-and-field sweatshirt she borrowed doesn’t cover up the fact that the micro jean shorts she’s wearing barely have enough material to cover her ass. Her thick mass of pitch-black hair falls in tousled waves around her oval face. Beauty queen beautiful with sparkling green eyes, flawless golden skin, and curves she developed in grade school; Mallory Peters is every guy’s wet dream.
Eyes trail her movement as she proceeds inside the classroom.
“What’s your excuse this time, Miss Peters?” Mallory devised a plan at the beginning of our senior year two months ago to catch Mr. Hammond’s attention. As part of that plan she’s made the habit of not only failing his tests, but she purposely comes in late so she can interrupt his class. I’m not sure if he’s caught on to her plan yet, but I can tell by the expression on his face he’s getting tired of her antics.
“I’m sorry.” She’s all fluttering lashes with a small smile, the furthest thing from contrite. “I was at the nurse’s office.” She stands close to him, another three or so inches and their proximity would be deemed inappropriate, and as if he knows that, Mr. Hammond takes the note she hands him before stepping back away from her.
“I’d like to see you after class.”
She sighs as though it’s the last thing she wants to do. “Fine.” When she walks away it’s with a deliberate sway to her hips that I’ve always admired but have never been able to emulate. Her smile could rival the sun in brilliance when she finally takes her seat across from me. I can practically hear her squeal of giddiness playing across her face, it’s not until lab time twenty minutes later that she finally gets the chance to talk to me.
“He so wants me.” I can’t say whether that’s true or not but I’m sure she isn’t looking for my opinion. When Mallory gets it in her head that she’s right about something, anyone else’s opinion is pointless. “It’s only a matter of time.” She heads to the opposite side of the room to collect the materials needed to dissect the formaldehyde-soaked frog pinned inside the cushioned silver pan in front of me.
Taking the scalpel from the variety of surgical instruments she brings back, I glance up, uttering, “If you say so.” I hate where the conversation is going. I hate that she’s pursuing this, knowing fully well that it’ll end badly. She’s my best friend. We’ve known each other since ninth grade. She’s been there with me through it all despite the fact that I’ve never shared the truth with her. She’s aware I’m in therapy, and just chalks it up to me being adopted. She’s asked questions but has never pushed for answers because she knew I wasn’t ready. That fact doesn’t bother me more than moments like these when I’m unable to tell her how much of a trigger this is for me. But I can’t. I won’t. So I say nothing and rightly so; she doesn’t notice. I think she’s correlated my silence for attentiveness a long time ago. She’s gotten used to it by now. With half an ear on what she’s saying, I bring the scalpel to the green flesh of the frog, wishing desperately that it was my skin that the sharp blade was slicing apart. The cuts I did last night suddenly don’t feel like enough. I could’ve gone deeper. I could’ve done more. I want to go on a binge. That sudden thought brings with it an influx of yearning so visceral it’s like a punch to my solar plexus. The slow, ever present creep of anxiety forms like a fine film over my thoughts making it impossible for me to remember any of my coping skills. But then again, I really don’t want to cope right now. Panic is a ball and chain around my ankle, dragging me down into the dark chasm of fear that sits beneath my soul, where my demons lie in wait. My heart is thrashing fast and hard against my breastbone; the pain becoming too much to bear. There is an invisible chloroform-soaked cloth over my nose, slowly stealing my breath until my lungs burn for air.
“Aylee? Are you okay?” No. I don’t think I am. I hear the concern in her voice. I see it smeared across her beautiful face. I turn my head to find everyone’s eyes staring at me, looking on in amused fascination like I’m the main attraction at the circus. My reality becomes distorted as I find the walls closing in on me.
My feet take off, pounding the ground as if of their own accord, moving faster than my mind can keep up. “Aylee!” I’m running. Where to, I have no idea. The hallway, the lockers, and the locked wooden doors all pass in a blur. I need air. I need—
Cut.
Cut.
Cut…to release the valve.
Cut…to release the pressure.
Cut…to bleed the stain.
I have an objective. I need a destination. The girls’ bathroom is straight ahead and around the corner. I just need to make it there. Relief is just within reach; just a little further. My arms and legs are moving swiftly, propelling me forward. All I can think about is cutting. The self-mutilating addict is roaring inside me, thrashing for the pain, for the blood. Nothing and no one else matters. The scalpel is in my hand. I didn’t leave it behind because subconsciously I knew I would need it. I’m holding onto the blade on purpose, squeezing my hand tight enough that the sharpness of the blade bites into my palm. The incredible need to do more takes my breath away. With all my focus centered on the desire to mutilate my body, it comes as a complete shock when I collide into the impenetrable wall of reality. The impact knocks the air out of me, sending me crashing to the floor. Shaking my head to try and gather my bearings, I notice the large pair of black boots rooted in a stance in front of me. Men’s boots, scuffed and worn.