Me on the Floor, Bleeding

by Jenny J

  Was she ill? Had she phoned and told him? Was this some bizarre attempt to protect me?

  ‘Shall I help you?’ asked Dad, when my plate was surrounded by green peas and a couple had fallen to the floor.

  ‘No! I don’t want you to!’

  I threw the fork away from me and it bounced off the plate with a clatter and down to the floor. The tears came and my voice cracked.

  ‘You think you’re so nice … so clever … so frigging good! That you do everything so frigging right’

  Dad looked at me, bewildered. The yellow shirt clashed with his face and made him look a sickly green.

  ‘Just because all those slags you … you drag home are so impressed because you’re looking after your poor loser of a kid who is so disturbed and weird that she doesn’t even have any friends, it doesn’t mean I am, get it? God, what do you want? Do you want me to be grateful or what? Don’t use me as your bloody babe magnet. Have you got that?’

  I shouted until my throat hurt, shouted until it became raw and fleshy. Like sushi.

  ‘But …’

  ‘Shut your mouth, you drunk! I’m doing all right. Don’t interfere!’

  Then I ran, me who was doing all right, away from the table and into my room, with tears streaming from my eyes and frustration boiling in my blood.

  I switched on the laptop and checked Dad’s emails but there was no reply. On the other hand, ironically enough, there was a message on his Facebook page from pathetic Denise in which, to cut a long story short, she offered him her already well-used genitals.

  I wrote back:

  You perverted little slag! Get the bloody message and give up!

  Jonas

  PS. Definition of 'girl': as yet sexually immature CHILD of the female gender.

  I lay on my bed staring at my mobile as if trying to magic up a telephone conversation with Justin or any sodding person at all, but I didn’t succeed. That wasn’t so strange. I wasn’t exactly known for succeeding with anything.

  MONDAY, 16 APRIL

  Hole in the Head

  When I woke up next morning I felt heavy and feverish, as if my body was fighting an infection. I lay in bed for a while, trying to hang on to the small fragments of the dream that had moments ago seemed so real but was now fading and slipping out of reach. The only remnant was a feeling of sorrow and a prickling sense of frustration. I must have been lying on my thumb because it ached and felt swollen with blood. I blinked but found it hard to see: something sticky was clouding my vision. Perhaps it was the beginning of an eye infection. Perhaps it was yesterday’s makeup dissolved by the tears I had cried in my sleep. I shut my eyes.

  I heard Dad come into my room but I kept my eyes closed. He sat on the bed. The mattress was so soft that I unwillingly rolled a few centimetres towards him. He stroked my hair and then ran his fingers through it, and they fastened in a tangle of old hairspray. He pushed my hair to the side and behind my ear like he always did. When I was awake I hated him doing that, hated how proper it made me look. This time I let him.

  ‘Maja, sweetheart.’

  His voice was so soft. I mumbled something, pretending I was more asleep than awake but I wondered if he had ever fallen for that.

  ‘Time to get up now.’

  I waited for him to say something about yesterday, some off-hand apology, even though it was me who ought to say sorry, or a gentle enquiry about what had happened. But he said nothing and only continued stroking my hair. Without opening my eyes I said:

  ‘Dad, has Jana phoned?’

  He was silent. For a long time. Too long?

  ‘What?’

  There it was. There was the “what?”. Same as always, when he didn’t like what I said.

  ‘No. Should she have done?’

  He stopped stroking my hair and rested his hand lightly on my forehead. Was he lying?

  ‘No. I don’t know, I just … just wondered.’

  He sat like that for a long time while his hand got heavier and heavier on my head. We said nothing. I still had my eyes shut when a moment later he stood up and left the room.

  I got up and checked Dad’s emails and Facebook page. I was getting obsessive. Not a single message since yesterday. Even Denise had fallen silent.

  I had a shower and the feverish feeling lifted slightly.

  I realised I would probably be able to go to school after all. Unfortunately.

  I felt fragmented and ugly and had to put on some of my reliable wardrobe favourites before I could even begin to tolerate myself. The black jeans, which were so tight that I had to lie on the floor to do them up, would have to stay undone for the moment. A black camisole and a black short-sleeved jacket that came to my waist, and finally a pair of white silk gloves that came up to my elbows. I cut the thumb off the left glove to make room for the bandage.

  It took me forty minutes to do my hair that morning. My first thought was to hide the cut on my forehead with my bangs, which always covered half my face, to avoid all the nosy questions from people who didn’t care about me anyway – Enzo excepted – and who I didn’t care about – Enzo excepted again. But if there was one thing I had learned after going to school for more than ten years it was that the more you try to hide something, the more it shows. People tend to think you’re ashamed of what you’re trying to hide and I wasn’t going to give people like Vendela and FAS-Lars the opportunity to get all excited over my presumed shame. So I made my hair stand on end using half an aerosol of ozone-depleting spray to keep it in place.

  Dad came and stood in the bathroom doorway, holding a cup of coffee and wearing that revolting yellow shirt again. I met his look in the mirror. He didn’t speak but I felt the atmosphere had changed. I hoped he wasn’t at that very minute remembering what I was remembering. My words: “Shut your mouth, you drunk!”

  My cheeks blushed with the shame of it.

  I didn’t want to ask him for help but I had to.

  ‘Can you do up my jeans?’

  He rested his coffee mug on the hand basin. It was hard to fasten the button. He had to stand behind me like he used to do when I was little. Normally we would have laughed. This wasn’t normal. He said:

  ‘Pull your stomach in.’

  I pulled my stomach in and eventually he managed to force the button through the buttonhole. He let go of me immediately, as if I was contagious. I mumbled a thank you and looked in my make-up bag for eyeliner. I painted a thick black line on one eye but it was crooked. I didn’t say anything but gave a low sigh and reached for a cotton wool bud. Dad took a gulp of his coffee. Then he asked me not to be offended but did I really have to make myself up to look like a prostitute?

  He might just as well have slapped me across the face.

  Not him as well.

  Not whore in school and prostitute at home. I couldn’t cope with it. I couldn’t cope with any more.

  ‘How could I possibly be offended by a remark like that?’ I said. I was so shocked I couldn’t even sound angry. When I had recovered I asked him not to be offended but did he really have to wear a shirt that made him look like a pimp?

  ‘What?’ said Dad, stupidly. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  He looked down at his shirt and laughed:

  ‘Does that mean I can keep it for myself?’

  Had he not heard ‘pimp’ or was he pretending? I said nothing.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It’s … how can I put it so you’ll understand? It has a kind of innate ugliness that passes all understanding.’

  I was playing that we were joking, that it was banter, but there was no twinkle in my eye. And I couldn’t see one in his, either. Inside I was cold.

  ‘Maja, I … perhaps it was …’

  Dad looked distressed, flung out his hand to say something, and spilled hot coffee over his shirt front.

  ‘Ouch! Hell! Well, now I’ll have to change it anyway.’

  He went into his bedroom and everything went quiet. A few minutes later he waved go
odbye from the hall, dressed in something grey and ordinary. His mouth was a straight line, his eyes sad. Before he went he said:

  ‘Don’t forget the hospital today. Your follow-up appointment.’

  ‘I know,’ I said quietly.

  My stomach ached. I raised my hand to wave but couldn’t bring myself to look at him. He shut the door softly as he left.

  I stared at myself in the mirror. I spent too much time in front of mirrors. It was narcissistic and pointless. I was narcissistic and pointless. I prodded the sore on my forehead. It looked as if I had been shot in the head.

  I groaned and rammed my fists into the shower curtain, right, left, right, left. It gave way gently but came back for more. Like a masochist. Was I one of those? Because I wasn’t a sadist, surely?

  Waves of pain pulsed through my hand and out into my thumb. I moaned and sat down on the toilet, my head in my hands.

  What was I doing? Why hadn’t I said anything? What was I going to do?

  I stood up and studied the sore on my forehead in the mirror.

  The memory of Justin.

  A flash image: the sharp stone in my hand, the window opening, the intense pain on my forehead, the fall onto the lawn, the smell of earth, warm blood on my face, the warm water, the tender hands, the damp towel, the stinging, the plaster over the cut, his face close to mine …

  I had an idea. A bit sick, but that was what I was like, wasn’t it? Psychotic? Sure. A whore? Sure.

  I went into my bedroom, opened the turquoise cupboard, and spread the contents out over the floor until I found what I was looking for: flesh-coloured modelling clay. The clay was a little dry but I softened it with some olive oil. I kneaded it, pulled off a piece and formed a low ridge all around the cut, making a crater. Then I blended in the clay with foundation so that it would match my skin colour. I got out a bottle of blood-red nail varnish and painted some right in the centre of the clay crater, directly over the cut, which stung like mad. I finished by letting a drop trickle down my forehead, stopping a millimetre from my left eyebrow.

  A hole in the head, mothafucka.

  The Walking Dead

  When I arrived at school Enzo was there, trying to stuff an oversized rucksack into his locker. We had gym that day and he always brought far too many clothes with him to cover all types of weather, all kinds of activities.

  ‘Who’s winning?’

  ‘Yes, well, pardon my French but it’s sodding well not me,’ said Enzo, who spoke more fluently and less nervously when he was irritated. He gave up and dragged the rucksack out of the locker instead. He took a sideways look at me as he opened it and pulled out a pair of trainers.

  ‘Wow! What have you … looks like you’ve …’

  He took a step closer and examined my forehead closely.

  ‘… been shot! Oh, it’s fake. Shit, I was really scared there for a minute. Hair looks nice.’

  ‘Thanks. Yours too. You have no idea how good it is to see you.’

  Enzo looked confused, unused to signs of affection from me, or from anyone.

  ‘Mutual. You look well,’ he said, a little too quickly.

  ‘Do I? That’s strange. I feel like the walking dead.’

  I wanted to hug him, but we didn’t do that kind of thing so I smiled and opened my locker and stared inside it, incapable of working out which book I needed.

  ‘Was Norrköping such a pain? Not that your mum’s a pain . . . I mean, I don’t even know her but . . . I only thought that . . . the journey and . . . well, you know.’

  I interrupted him.

  ‘No, I know what you mean. Not a pain as such, but just – oh, you know.’

  ‘Maths,’ said Enzo helpfully, after I had been staring at my books for a while.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and at that precise moment I was close to saying something about Mum, and maybe something about young men with good and honourable intentions. I had a “You know what?” on the tip of my tongue, on the spot where you taste sweet things, and perhaps a bit on the sides too, where you taste salt, and I felt my heart beating hard against my ribcage. But as soon as I looked up at Enzo I changed my mind. I couldn’t do it. It was something to do with his nice, kind look and the difference between his life and mine. I didn’t want to lay myself bare and listen to his sympathetic, stammering, disguised expressions of tenderness because they would make me weak. I swallowed my “You know what?” and the “Y” cut my throat like a knife.

  ‘It’ll be cool this evening!’ said Enzo.

  ‘Yeah! Totally!’ I said, trying to pitch my voice to sound happy, like a chipmunk in a Disney film. I had forgotten I was supposed to be going to his house, had forgotten Control.

  ‘How’s your thumb, by the way?’ he went on, but before I had time to answer I saw Valter pass us in the corridor. I followed him with my eyes, taking in his well-ironed shirt, his curly hair, his expensive shoes. As if he felt my gaze he turned and noticed me standing paralysed, unable to act, my fingers still tightly clenched around my locker key.

  ‘Maja!’ he called. ‘How are you? How’s your thumb? Can I see?’

  He walked quickly towards me and grabbed hold of my bandaged hand to get a closer look. He appeared not to see the bullet hole in my forehead. I caught Enzo’s eyes briefly over the top of the locker door. His eyebrows were raised in astonishment. Valter was not usually this involved, this energetic.

  ‘Yeah, good,’ I said. ‘It hurts a bit but …’

  ‘You’ll get over it, you’re very strong.’

  ‘Oh, am I?’ I said insolently, but he seemed not to hear.

  ‘I was thinking … you might like to finish your shelf this week?’ Valter went on. ‘I mean, if you can, with your thumb and everything. There isn’t much left to do and we’ll be spending the remaining few weeks on a photo project. It would be good if you’d finished the shelf by then.’

  ‘Yes, that might be a good idea.’

  Mum’s forty-fifth birthday present. I wondered if she would ever have it, if I would ever see her again to hand it over.

  ‘What did the principal say? Was she angry?’

  ‘No, no, not angry. But we agreed it would be better if students devoted more time to sculpture during sculpture lessons.’

  ‘A shelf is …’

  ‘… a sculpture too? No, I don’t think so. Still, I’ll be here after school for a few more evenings, writing reports for the third years – oh God, I’m already having anxiety attacks about that. But it means I can help you, if you need any help.’

  Enzo looked shocked and embarrassed at the same time. All this chummy interest. He muttered something about us having to go to our class. I indicated two minutes and he went on ahead. The corridor began to empty out and I thought that Valter ought to be going to his class too, but he stayed where he was with his Prince hair and with his hand cream-soft hands around my wrist.

  When Enzo had disappeared I made an attempt.

  I said ‘Um … we really want to replace your T-shirt …’

  ‘Your dad mentioned something about that, but don’t worry about it.’

  ‘No, I’d feel better if we did.’

  ‘There’s really no need. It wasn’t as if you sawed off your thumb deliberately, was it?’

  Always these insinuations. I felt like informing him, Dad, and the rest of the world that it was possible to wear black clothes without feeling the need to cut yourself. That you didn’t have to be suicidal just because you refused to go around smiling all the time. That they ought to think about how they dealt with their anxiety before they started throwing massive great stones about in their glasshouses, because I certainly hadn’t seen anything to convince me that they’d win any prizes at verbalising it, exactly. ‘The school must have some form of insurance to cover things like that. I’ll take it up with the principal.’

  ‘Yeah, but I can take the T-shirt home and wash it, can’t I? Just to say thanks for your help?’

  Valter hesitated.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he
said finally. ‘If it makes you feel better.’

  I tried to wriggle my hand out of his grip but he didn’t want to let go so I had to kind of twist it free. He was looking at me strangely. What was wrong with him? I closed my locker and walked away. It was only when I reached the classroom that I realised I had forgotten my books. I went back to the locker. In the distance I saw Vendela sauntering down the corridor, no doubt ready to attack the first person who deviated from what she decided was the norm.

  The school day continued in such slow motion that every minute felt like a quarter of an hour. Enzo had to help me button up my trousers twice, which was two times too many, and I think at least four teachers told me to go and wash my forehead. I did as they asked, removing a little bit of nail varnish each time, but insisted that it was impossible to get it off completely and that it was a real injury, which was at least partly true. And they said nothing more about it, or followed it up, fascinatingly enough, even though the maths teacher at least got all worked up and shouted, spraying us with saliva:

  ‘Being shot in the head is nothing to joke about!’

  I agreed. That seemed to make him worse, strangely enough. I don’t think he likes me.

  Our Swedish teacher Hanne took a plaster out of her massive Gucci bag and without asking stuck it right over the crater. Since I had her billowing chest in my face at the time it was only afterwards that I realised she must have seen it was fake. But she didn’t say anything. It had its advantages, being able to write superlative haikus and heart-rending stories, to be able to verbalise things. Your anxiety, for example.

  Although on this particular day I was not especially outstanding. I didn’t write one single poem in free verse, which was our task, and only raised my hand once, but that was to go to the toilet, which I wasn’t allowed to do.

  It didn’t matter. I didn’t really need to go. I only wanted to check Dad’s emails on my mobile and be left in peace for a while.

  A Shot of Adrenalin in the Heart