The water feels good pelting down on my bowed head, and it’s hot enough to bring a dark red flush to my skin. But I don’t mind it. It doesn’t hurt. It’s a crude form of what I really want to do, anyway. Not as effective, but it helps. For now…it helps. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing in the shower. Probably long enough to make me look like a raisin, but I’m not ready to leave yet. It’s taken me a long time to earn back this little bit of privacy, so I intend to enjoy the little bit of time I have left. The bathroom is one of the only places in the house I have that’s mine, one of the only places I can be alone for a moment. But being alone sometimes isn’t such a good thing. Not for me. Being alone puts my thoughts into overdrive, and when they go into overdrive it leads me to doing things that aren’t particularly healthy. And just like that, the temperature of the water isn’t enough anymore. I want something else with a little more bite to it. The all too familiar itch I’ve battled with for so long creeps up my spine, like a worm wriggling over bruised fruit, searching for a soft spot to burrow itself into yielding flesh. It wants into my brain, into my thoughts, so that it can justify this secret need to hurt myself.
Cut.
Cut.
Repeat.
Cut.
Cut.
Repeat.
Filthy. Girl.
You’re. Not. Clean.
You’ll. Never. Be. Clean. Enough.
The mantra ping-pongs around in my head, bouncing off the walls of my mind with resonating clarity. My chest tightens, my heart quickens, and I gasp for breath as I squeeze my eyes shut and reach blindingly in front of me. One of several coping skills I’ve learned at the clinic immediately comes into play and I cling to it with all my might as I set my wet hands against the white tiled wall in front of me. With bowed head and open mouth, I keep my eyes closed and begin a steady count back from one hundred. Every number is accompanied by a long, even drag of hot wet air into my lungs. Gradually, the itch retreats back into the labyrinth of my mind and I’m safe to return to sanity. Well—my version of sanity. And though relatively calm now, the boom of my heart persists. It’s an insistent, familiar tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump that echoes too loudly between my ears.
It’s not until I hear, “Time’s up, Aylee!” that I realize the banging is coming from the bathroom door. I’m not ready to leave yet. I’m not ready to give up these treasured minutes of privacy, but knowing what will happen if I don’t, my hand flies to the silver dial of the faucet to turn it off. Any trouble I make guarantees his involvement and that’s the last thing I need. Dripping wet, I step out of the tub and reach for the large, white towel hanging from the towel rack. It’s oversized, meant for someone twice my size, but it’s fluffy and newly washed. The fresh, clean scent of fabric softener puts me slightly at ease as I dry myself. There’s no need to linger, no need to let the towel touch me in places I’d rather forget exist. When I’m done, I wrap the towel around my body, stoop down to grab my dirty clothes from where I’d discarded them on the floor, and just as I exit, I drop them inside the tall, beige wicker basket that serves as my hamper. It’s an automatic thing when I head to the bedroom door to make sure the silver lock has been turned vertically. Ensuring that it’s properly locked, I’m a little freer to walk around the room that’s been mine for the last nine years. It hasn’t changed much from since the Bennetts first brought me here to live with them.
The walls are still painted that light peach color Rachel, my foster mother, said she’d picked out just for me because she just knew peach would be my color. It’s not. It never has been. But that first day, that first week, those first few months, even years later, I still tell her it is because the very real fear of being returned to the group home lives and breathes inside me. Another demon to feed on my secrets.
Walking over to the all-white vanity dresser, I pull open the third left bottom drawer containing all my panties. Rachel hasn’t bought me underwear since I was twelve, but she might as well have considering how prominent her taste of style is in the choice of undergarments I’ve bought in recent years. It’s a trove of neutral-colored cotton lace panties. I grab a nude pair and slip them on beneath the towel. It’s not until I retrieve a beige-colored bra from the drawer above the one containing my panties that I finally drop the towel. I turn my back to the mirror as I put on the bra, and without a second glance back, I move to the whitewashed teak armoire set next to my study desk. Opening it, I look at the clothes hanging and neatly folded inside. There isn’t much of a selection. Even the closet adjacent to my bed wouldn’t offer much in a way of variety aside from the long sleeved cardigans, all in neutral colors, the two pairs of jeans, and the long skirts and dresses Rachel insists on buying. It’s not what I would choose for myself, but it’s what I’ve become accustomed to, so I wear them because it’s so much easier than continuing to make a nuisance of myself.
I grab a dove-gray pair of skinny jeans and a black camisole from the folded pile of clothing at the bottom of the armoire. It’s simple and modest; appropriate for church, and best of all, Rachel approved. When I reach inside the armoire for the white, long sleeved cardigan, I stop mid motion as my eyes involuntarily catch the reddish pink scar running jaggedly down my right arm. It stands out the most among a sea of previous little white cuts. And set against the stark background of my fair skin, it looks twice as bad. But it’s not. Forty-five stitches it took to close it back up but the cut isn’t really that deep. Everyone just overreacted to Rachel’s hysterics. She tends to take things to another level when she’s riled up. But then, she doesn’t know the truth. She just thinks it has something to do with my birthparents. An inherited history of mental illness from the people that abandoned me when I was six. It’s better to let her think that. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—handle it if I shattered her idyllic life. Besides, she wouldn’t believe me.
No one will believe you.
It’s your fault.
No one will believe you.
It’s your fault.
No one will believe you.
It’s a refrain that’s been drummed into me for the last nine years. It has bled into my subconscious, the demons taking hold of it, manipulating the tenor of its voice, twisting gin-soaked words that are not my own but my mind has been convinced belong to me.
A frown pulls my eyebrows together as memories I don’t want to remember fight their way to the forefront of my mind. Shaking my head to disperse them doesn’t work as snapshots of memories flash across my mind’s eye. It’s not in order, just a jumble of images. More secrets consummated and birthed in the shadowed darkness of this bedroom. I remember the body fluid, the warm river of blood streaming down my forearm, soaking the area rug of my bedroom. I remember pervasive hands, masculine fingers caressing my sweat-stained skin beneath the comforter. The cloying cologne of too much gin cutting off my breath as he leaned down to—