by Autumn Grey
Cole lets go of my hands and sits up, facing me before reaching for my hands again.
I want him to hold me so badly, but if he does, then he won’t be able to read my lips.
“I don’t remember how I got to the bathroom upstairs. All I know is that, I was standing in front of the mirror, staring at myself. I was the cause of all these problems. If my mother hadn’t become pregnant with me, Dad wouldn’t have felt forced to marry her. I hadn’t even cried. I asked myself who I was, and why I couldn’t even cry for my own mother. I wanted to feel something to stop the numbness that had turned me into a robot. I pinched my arm but it wasn’t enough to startle my emotions. My hand reached for Dad’s shaving razor, pressed it on my right forearm and slid it across. The pain shot through me, making me lean forward on the sink. Blood pebbled against my skin. Finally, I felt something. I felt alive. The events of the past hour hit me hard. I dropped the razor on the sink as my knees gave way and I crumpled on the floor. When I finally left the bathroom, my feet guided me to my dad’s computer where I searched on the internet. I wasn’t even sure what I was searching for, but suddenly, I had so many answers about things I didn’t know and instead of walking away, cutting became my escape. It was my guilty pleasure.
“I got better at pretending. I would smile when my parents were around, chatter aimlessly, but inside, especially when I got nothing in return, I’d feel a part of me die. Every night, I’d drop to my knees and pray for some kind of miracle or magic that would mend whatever rough patch my parents were going through. I felt as if I was drowning with no chance of coming up for air.”
Cole doesn’t say anything. His eyes are transfixed on my lips, absorbing every word that falls out of my mouth. The movie and popcorn long forgotten. He asks for some clarification on words he didn’t catch because I was speaking too fast. My stomach is tight and filled with tension.
“The first person to notice was my high school counselor during our quarterly progress evaluation. My grades were perfect, but I had withdrawn from all activities. I stopped hanging out with my friends because I was afraid they would shun me if they found out that our family was a mess. I was also afraid they would find out what I hid beneath my long sleeve sweaters and blouses.
The counselor called a meeting with my mother. My father was hardly ever at home. It took me a very long time to get my life together. A lot of therapy sessions. My mother seemed to get her act together for a while. But my father’s constant absence and his temper didn’t help.
Rumors started to circulate around school about what happened with my mother. In two days everyone was talking about how she tried to commit suicide. I couldn’t bear facing my former classmates. I transferred to another school, not that it made things better. Eventually, my father came home one night and announced he had found another job. A promotion and so we moved here.”
He closes his eyes, a muscle ticking furiously in his jaw. When he opens them again, his lashes are wet with tears that haven’t fallen yet. “Did it help? Cutting yourself?”
I wince and lick my lips. That word—cutting—sounds so harsh, coming from that mouth that makes me forget who I am. “Yes. For a while, it did. Until I cut myself too deep, desperate to gain some sort of control over everything that was happening. The next time I woke up, I was in a hospital bed.”
The admission makes me nauseous. When I woke up in the hospital, I saw my father standing beside me. He’d been staring at me softly, a look full of remorse etched on his face. But the second he realized I was conscious, his face had immediately hardened and he asked me why, what was wrong with me. He said that being a Blake is not for the weak.
I shake my head quickly remembering the harsh words that fell from his lips. “I wasn’t trying to commit suicide. I just wanted to feel something. I felt as if I was losing control of everything. I was so desperate.”
He lifts a hand to wipe my face. I hadn’t known I was crying until I felt his thumb brush my cheek.
“Crap. Sorry,” I say, quickly wiping my face with the back of my hand. “I’m such a mess.”
He takes my chin between his thumb and index finger in a firm hold. “I don’t care. You are my beautiful mess.”
I sob and laugh in one breath. “Beautiful? I’m covered with tears and snot.”
“Yes. Your face is puffy and your eyes are red, but you’ve never looked more beautiful.” He points at me and then holds his hand flat with the palm facing him. He moves his hand from his forehead and ends at the chin while pulling his fingers together, and says, “You are beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I sign and speak the words.
I know I probably look weak basking in those words and my previous statement about tears and snot sounded needy, but if his hands offer me the solace I crave, then I’ll gladly welcome it. I tug the black beanie from his head and toss it on the couch before I tangle my fingers into his soft hair. His eyes fall shut immediately and a moan escapes his parted lips.
He opens his eyes again and stares at me through heavy-lidded eyes. His thumb brushes my jaw and I close my eyes, soaking up the heat, the reverent adoration flowing from him and into my skin. I take it all in with a hunger so wild it’s a physical pain. Then he pulls my head down to him and kisses me. What starts out as a sweet kiss transitions into a battle of teeth and tongue. Hands greedy for a touch, bodies fighting to get closer. His fingers leave my face and wrap around the nape of my neck, gripping me tight. A low growl pushes through his lips and into mine.
Holy hell.
How is it I’d lived without his mouth on mine all these years, and the second he kisses me I feel as if he has always been there, kissing me, comforting me, claiming me. Desiring me.
Pain shoots through my spine, reminding me of my awkward position. I tug his hair and he moans, nipping my bottom lip before pulling back. Our hard breathing mingles as our hearts fight to calm down. His hands dive into my hair, sifting through the tresses, his mouth pulled at the sides in my favorite smile.
“How long has it been?” He’s playing with a strand of my hair, wrapping it around his finger, but his eyes are still on mine.
My brain is still trying to recover so it takes me a while to catch up with his question. “Do you mean since I completely stopped cutting myself?” He doesn’t cringe at me using that word. He nods, his stare as rapt as it was before.
“Almost three years now.”
I pause and inhale deeply. I could lie to him, pretend I’m strong. Pretend the mere sight of a knife or a fork, anything that has the power to give me relief, doesn’t tempt me. I’ve come this far now. He deserves to know everything.
“I’ve relapsed once in those three years. One day I came home after a bad day at school. Everyone was going to this party they had been invited to. I wasn’t part of a clique and didn’t have a friend who was friends with the popular kids.”
When I’m done, I take a deep breath. My body feels lighter after the admission, but at the same time, apprehension coils deep inside me. I’m still waiting for him to recoil away from me and leave.
But he doesn’t. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me to him. His gaze is soft and full of admiration, even laced with tears, as he leans to kiss my forehead, my cheek. He looks at me like I’m the most perfect thing in his world, despite the scars that mark my body, despite my insecurities. He looks at me with stars in his eyes.
We spend the rest of the evening just hanging out on the terrace.
Later that night, Cole meets me on the roof. We spend the next thirty minutes with my hand in his. I’ve never felt so content in my life. I stand up and so does he. We go to my room. . .he kisses me again, his hand slipping under my shirt.
“So you just wanted to grope me? Cole, I’m disappointed.”
He laughs, his hands shamelessly bunching my shirt up to my neck and he nuzzles his face between my breasts. He kisses my skin, his warm breath causing heat to skitter down my body, then makes a sound close to a hum under his breath, closing
his eyes.
After he leaves, I change into my pajamas and sit down on my chair while pulling out my doodling notebook. I grab the pens on the table ready to scribble, but something catches the corner of my eye. My heart races as I reach over and slide the letter titled, “Open when you feel like crying” off the corner of my desk. My stomach does this somersaulting thing as I take in Cole’s careless scrawl.
“It’s okay to cry. It doesn’t make you weak. It means you’ve held onto the pain for too long. It means you are strong enough to let go and it makes me love you even more. I want to be there to hold you when your world is falling apart. Maybe I won’t be able to put it back together, but I sure as hell will try.”
Remember the silver lining. ;)
Cole.
I TURNED EIGHTEEN ON AUGUST sixteenth. I celebrated the better part of that day with my sisters and Mom, snuggled on her bed in her room. Later that night on the roof, Cole brought a cupcake for me with one candle on top of it and a drawing of a butterfly in flight, with a special note on the back of it. “Find your wings and fly.” He also gave me a necklace with two beautiful pendants on it: a round galaxy, made up of a dome glass which is painted in blue-green and red colors beneath it with glitter for stars, and an anchor. It was beautiful and a thoughtful gift, and I adore it so much. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday.
Megs flew back home from California a week before school started. I contemplated if I should wear a blouse with long sleeves to cover my arms, but decided against it. Everyone would know about the scars sooner or later. I preferred the latter and to get it out of the way.
After dropping Elon and Elise at school, I drove to mine. My first day went better than I expected. Word spread around that there was a new girl in school—a cutter. Most people stared in the hallways and during lunch, and in every class I attended, which made my skin itch and the urge to run, immense. It wasn’t easy.
Right after school, I was wonderfully surprised to find Cole, Simon and Megs waiting for me outside in the school parking lot next to the Station Wagon. I’d never felt so relieved and happy in my whole life. It made me wonder how I’d survived all this time without friends.
The first week of school crawled by, people continued to stare, but after a while they got bored, I guess.
Cole and I were chatting about our life goals last night. I still have no idea what I really want to do. There are so many options to choose from.
Today is the first time Cole didn’t show up on the roof since we moved here. Watching the night sky has become our thing. I’ve already sent him several texts but he hasn’t replied.
I walk to the window and duck my head out. No one seems to be home in The Holloway house. It has been that way for hours and I’m starting to feel nervous. None of their cars are parked outside the house. Uneasiness slithers down my spine. I can’t shake off the feeling that something is wrong.
Before I met Cole, I would’ve rolled my eyes if someone told me that another person could become your whole world within the blink of an eye. Now I know and understand that a person can be a stranger one second, nothing but a fantasy, and the next, knock your world off its axis and claim every breath from your lungs with his existence.
At around ten-thirty p.m., I hear the sound of a car pulling to a stop, snapping me out of my thoughts. I scramble up and carefully balance myself on the tiles. My heart flips around inside my chest as I dash to the window.
I glance at the Holloway house. Maggie is walking briskly toward the porch, her head bowed. Suddenly, she stiffens and looks around. I follow her gaze and see dad’s car pulling in to a stop outside our house. He jumps out of the car and jogs across the lawn toward her. Maggie snaps into action, clutches her purse under her arm and literally dashes to the front door. She stops to unlock her door, darting a glance over her shoulder while fumbling with the keys in her hands. Dad catches up to her, reaches out for her arm and spins her around. He leans closer, speaking in a low voice. She yanks her arm from his grip in an attempt to move away from him, but he doesn’t give her space. He stalks after her and positions his body in front of her, blocking her escape.
“You shouldn’t be here, Stephen,” she says in a shrilly, quivering voice. She shoots a glance in the direction of our house, then back to my father.
“Fuck. Listen to me, Maggie,” he snaps at her, gripping both of her arms. “You keep ignoring me. Every. Single. Time.”
She sighs, and stops fighting him. “You and I have nothing to talk about. Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is. Our children get along very well. Don’t destroy that.”
Crap crap crap.
I hold my breath and wait.
No one says anything for several seconds. Seconds that feel like a bomb is ticking, ready to explode.
“What did you just say?”
She sighs in exasperation. “Let the past be what it is, Stephen. I’m happy with Ben—”
“Your son and my daughter. Together.” He sounds like a robot.
“Yes.” She pauses. “Didn’t you know they were together?”
He laughs, but it’s cold and forced. “Well, well.” Those two words send chills all over my body.
He straightens and waves a hand in the air as if dismissing what Maggie told him about Cole and me. He steps closer, caging her in. “This is about you and me, Maggie. You and me. You still feel something for me. We are forever.”
She plants her hands on his chest and shoves him back. “Go home and take care of your family. They need you, especially your wife.”
“Maggie.” He spits out her name. “I told you why I moved here. You’re not in love with Ben and you never have been. You went back to him to get back at me. Admit it, damn it. You still love me.”
She shakes her head quickly. “No. I don’t. I’ve told you so many times.”
He shakes his head violently, his eyes wide. I know that look. Pure madness and determination. “You’ve always been mine and I have always been yours. We promised, remember?”
“We were young for God’s sake.” I hear the panic in her voice.
My body is frozen in place, rendered immobile. My dad is really, really insane. His fixation on Maggie is not normal.
“Yes. But we meant every word. I told you you belonged to me, yet you still went and whored yourself to him.”
She raises her hand and slaps him across the face, the sound echoing in the quiet night. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that again.” Her entire body is vibrating with anger now. “Don’t ever touch me again either, Stephen. Ever. Move aside. Now.”
He clenches his hands at his sides but doesn’t move. I’ve never heard anyone speak to my father like that. She doesn’t seem intimidated by the fact that my dad is two seconds from ripping her head off her neck.
She gives him a wide berth and hurries to the door. Keys clank loudly in the quiet night as she fidgets with them and the lock. Finally, the door unlocks. She steps inside and it slams shut in his face.
Dad spins around and stalks to his car. I duck away from the window and only come up when the sound of his car racing down the street fades. The night is blanketed in the aftermath of what just happened.
I toss and turn in bed for hours, different thoughts whipping around inside my head. What I witnessed tonight answers many questions about why my father looks at Maggie as if she’s everything he’s ever wanted. She IS everything he’s ever wanted. My dad is still in love with Maggie.
Scratch that.
He is obsessed with her.
I pull my phone from beside my pillow and type out a text to Megs, then delete it. Then type it again. I press “send” before I chicken out. I need to get it off my chest, otherwise I won’t be able to sleep tonight. I set the phone on the pillow, waiting for her to answer. My eyes finally give in to exhaustion. I sigh, turn on my side and fall asleep.
I snap awake to the feel of my bed dipping down, then my hair being pushed off my forehead. I stiffen and gag on the pungent
smell of liquor-soaked breath slamming into me. The bedside lamp is still on, but I can see a shadow reflected on my wall.
Dad. His head is bent low. The sounds coming from him are. . .God. . .this is not my dad. He’s. . .crying? No, he’s bawling. Keening sounds are coming out of his chest as if his entire world is crashing. He’s mumbling unintelligibly under his breath between sobs.
This is so out of character for him. But I can’t afford to lower my guard.
He sniffs, then I feel a hand on my hair again.
“Caroline, I wish I loved you enough. I wish I loved you like I love her.” I’ve never heard my father speak in such a voice. It’s broken, lonely. Wistful.
Oh God.
Everyone tells me I look like my mom. But surely my father can tell the difference. Surely he can tell that he is in the wrong room, at least.
God, please make him leave.
But he doesn’t. The last time my dad came into my room like this, we were in Ohio. My life was complete crap and I used to find relief in cutting myself, desperate for some sort of control.
One night he came home drunk and had a horrible fight with my mother. She asked him where he was spending most of his days and nights. He’d left her in the living room and headed for the stairs. He stopped in the hallway before storming into my room. He started to curse me, saying I was as useless as my mother, his face marred with angry lines.