Seeing Red

  ‘Sure I know I’m good. I’ve had years of training at the hands of the most demanding client.’

  ‘Your sister, right?’

  ‘Yeah, my sister.’

  She’s made me think of Madeleine and I wonder where Madeleine is right now. I can’t stop thinking of her sobbing if you really want to know, and that just about kills me.

  We’re just sitting here, waiting for the lacquer to dry, and listening to – this came as a major surprise, trust me – Chet Baker playing mellow jazz, when I notice a small pair of nail scissors on the dresser, next to one of the bowls of glass beads. I can just about reach them as I lean forward, so I pick them up. They are chrome and sharp and pointed.

  Actually, the music is kind of hypnotic and we’re not talking much as we listen to it so I don’t really imagine that Sylvia has even noticed that I’ve picked the scissors up. Truth is, the music has a slightly melancholic air to it, and I get to thinking about her dad describing me as another one, and who the others might be and what they might mean to Sylvia. And I’m on the verge of making myself stupid and silly about it.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Sylvia seems angry and I can’t imagine what she’s talking about. And then I notice what I am doing. I have the scissors in one hand, and I’ve opened them out. And without even realising I’m doing it, I’m running the sharp point up along the inside of my forearm. I’m pressing hard, but not quite hard enough to break the skin. All the same, I’m leaving deep red marks. And I realise that these marks sort of mirror the scars on Sylvia’s arm.

  ‘Do you think that’s funny? Or are you just dumb-ass crazy or something?’

  Before I can answer, she’s swinging her legs over my head and she’s getting up off the bed. She’s having to walk back on her heels like a duck because of the toe-separators but I’m not laughing, or even smiling. Sylvia is mad upset, and I didn’t even realise what I was doing. I never meant to upset her, and that’s the certain truth.

  She snatches the scissors out of my hand and she’s holding one of the points against the scars on her own arm. She’s glaring at me and I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. Then I see her soften and she just throws those scissors across the room. I don’t see where they fall – I just hear them hit a wall – because I’m fixed on her. She’s looking over my head, not looking at me.

  ‘I’m sorry. I guess I know you didn’t mean anything by it.’

  ‘I didn’t even know I was doing it. I swear to God I didn’t.’

  She sits on the bed next to where I’m still sitting on the floor. We are talking to each other’s reflection in the dresser mirror, like we are too fragile to face up to our words directly.

  ‘I know. I know you didn’t.’

  ‘So what’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m not ashamed of these scars on my arm you know. But I’m not proud of them either. And I just kind of freaked out, seeing you running those scissors against your skin. I don’t know. I guess I really thought you were going to do it.’

  ‘Really? Wow, I wasn’t even thinking of it. I don’t think I’d have the nerve, to tell you the truth.’

  Actually, I’d been pressing that scissor point in pretty damn hard if you must know. To the point where it was hurting, but only just enough so that it was almost becoming a pleasure. I know, I know that sounds sick and unbelievable, but I can only tell you, that’s exactly how it felt. And I’m going to confess to you here, I had been wondering – just wondering mind – what it would be like to simply press the point a little harder; to break the skin and watch the rivulets of blood run down my arm. To stare at them until all I could do was watch, until I just lost myself in seeing red. You can see why I don’t say any of this to Sylvia though, right?

  Sylvia is taking me at face value. And she suddenly turns round on her knees so that she’s facing me. I find myself hoping that she’s not smudging that lacquer on her toes – I’d made a fantastic job of them, I swear to God – but that thought quickly passes because Sylvia is smiling a sultry smile that seems experienced way beyond her sixteen years.

  ‘I’m glad to hear that, Tom. Because there sure are better ways of passing the time.’

  Before you know it, we are wrapped around each other and it’s just like a continuation of that kiss from last night on the doorstep. She really gives herself to the kiss, so that all you can do is let go with her. Which I do. And the last thing I can honestly tell you is that through it all, I can hear old Chet Baker mumbling something about a funny valentine or something, and that it seems just about appropriate. I could tell you more, but I’m not going to. Figure it out for yourself.

  CHAPTER 12

  A weight off my mind

  It’s been a strange sort of week so far. From the outside, you could look at it and think that it’s been pretty tedious and dull and ordinary for me. I get up in the morning, I choose what I’m going to wear, I go to school, I come home again. But it hasn’t felt ordinary. I feel like I’ve been existing in a fog.

  Take school for example. It sounds pretty nerdish to say it, I know, but most of the time I don’t mind school. Sometimes I quite enjoy it. I’m quite academic really, and I guess that most of it comes easy to me. But this week I haven’t been interested. When I’m there, all I’m thinking about is Sylvia. And I’m always just looking out for her. I swear to God, all I do is think about her and I’m moping around at break times trying to see if I can find her. And I know how stupid and dangerous that is, because I’m pretty certain that she doesn’t spend all her time thinking about me, and it’s pretty obvious that she doesn’t make any effort to seek me out. Don’t get me wrong, she always seems happy enough when I do find her, and she’s happy to pass the time with me. She’s not distant or anything like that. In fact, she’s quite affectionate really. Thing is, there’s been a couple of days this week when she hasn’t showed up for school at all and although I know I’m being stupid, I’m tearing myself up wondering where she is and what she’s doing when she isn’t there. That is stupid isn’t it? Yeah, I know it is.

  I’m also looking out for Eddie all the time. Although actually, Eddie caught me unawares just this morning, by the lockers. And he was okay with me, as it happens. I mean, he wasn’t like the Eddie who had been my best friend or anything, but he didn’t try to beat me into the ground or anything and there was no mention of me being a perv or anything. In fact, he even spoke to me.

  ‘I hear you’ve been seeing Sylvia Reynolds. Is that right?’

  I’m stunned to hear him speak to me at all.

  ‘Er, yeah. I have. I’ve just seen her a couple of times. Nothing serious.’

  Have I told you before how casually and effectively I’m able to lie? Eddie just nods like he’s the sage of romance or something.

  ‘I saw her out on the town last night. She’s cute. I guess we can say for definite now that you’re not queer.’

  And Eddie just slams his locker shut and turns and walks away.

  So Sylvia was out on the town last night. And she’s not come to school today. Well you can imagine the thoughts racing through my mind. What was she doing, where was she going? Who was she with? Yeah, that’s the question alright. That’s the one it all boils down to. Who was she with?

  Of course I just want to run after Eddie and ask him this very question, but I don’t. I don’t want Eddie to know just how struck I am on Sylvia. I don’t want anyone to know. And worse, I’m scared of what the answer might be. Because all I can see are visions of Sylvia out on the town with someone else, laughing that laugh of hers and having a great time and it’s killing me. Do you get that? It’s killing me, it’s choking me up inside.

  So I’m sitting on my bed and I’m chewing this over again and again and again; round and round it goes, the same cycle of thoughts, and I don’t feel any better for it.

  And every time I see Madeleine I feel the burden of the secret that she’s shared with me. We’ve barely spoken to each other all week
and it’s Thursday night now. It’s nearly Saturday. And we know what’s going to happen on Saturday.

  So there it is; I’m carrying Madeleine’s secret like I’m carrying her unborn child, because that’s how heavy and scary it feels to me. And Mom thinks that I’m a feeble victim and wants me to change schools. And I’m stressing about Sylvia to the point where all I can see is the city at night and people and bars, and there she is with some guy. He looks cool and older than me, so I guess that I’m basing his image on Madeleine’s bastard boyfriend David. Everyone is having a good time and Sylvia is laughing at his jokes and putting her hand up to her mouth like she does, and sometimes they’re sharing intimate talk and she just touches his arm so that it makes me sick inside to see it. And they’re dancing. And then they’re slow-dancing and they’re holding each other. And then her lips are pressing against his so that I can actually feel them against goddam mine.

  So you’re wondering how the scissors came to be in my hand? Well I can’t tell you. They’re from a cabinet in the bathroom and I can’t even remember going to the bathroom. All I know is that I’m sitting at the foot of my bed like I sat at the foot of Sylvia’s bed. I’ve been out and bought a goddam Chet Baker CD and that’s so depressing it might as well be Leonard Cohen or Nick Cave, and the only light is the flicker from the goddam TV which is playing with the sound turned down.

  I can see the scissors alright though. I’ve been tracing stripes up and down my forearm with one of the points. For some while now, I guess, because I can see the pink tracks where I’ve been pressing it into the skin. Now I’m just staring at one of the points where it’s digging in to my flesh. I can’t feel anything. I just see it. I’m detached from what I’m looking at, like it’s someone else’s arm. Sylvia’s arm, maybe. And I push the point harder and I still feel nothing, but there’s a deep indentation now. And I push some more and then I feel a tiny sting, and I can see that I’ve burst the skin because a little blob of blood is building up around the point. But that’s all there is. This tiny sting and then nothing. I’m still watching, like I’m in a trance or something. The point is still dug in there, beneath the skin, and the blob of blood has started to run. I don’t feel it, and as I look I don’t even see the arm as my arm at all. It’s Sylvia’s arm. And it’s fascinating to watch as I draw the scissor point up my arm and more blood follows this track. It hurts at first, but Sylvia is right; only for a moment. I’m watching the blood flow and I feel that it’s my blood and Sylvia’s blood, like this act is bonding us somehow. And more rivulets are running over and around my arm. They’re dripping onto my legs but I don’t feel that at all. Everything else that was weighing down on me has gone. I’m just watching. Until all I’m doing is just seeing red.

  CHAPTER 13

  I can’t be responsible

  Well, it’s Friday morning and I’m standing in the bathroom. I’m standing in front of the mirror, but I’m not looking at myself like I normally would. I’m checking the tight bandages around my arm. You can see a ragged red track on the outside of the gauze where the blood has seeped through. I cut myself pretty damn deep last night. It didn’t hurt then though, and it doesn’t hurt now. Sylvia was right about that. All the same, I feel bad about myself for having done it. I wonder if I’ll have a scar like one of Sylvia’s. Do I really want that?

  There’s a knock at the bathroom door.

  ‘Tom, are you in there?’

  It’s Madeleine. The knock is subdued and so is her voice. Of course, I know just why that is and you do too. But do you know what bugs me? Makes me feel angry if you really want to know? Poor old Madeleine has been like this all week. She’s been withdrawn and quiet, and that is so unlike her. And Mom and Dad haven’t even noticed. Can you believe that? Goddam, they haven’t even noticed and it’s their own daughter and she’s obviously in trouble or something and they haven’t even said a word. I guess that they’re drooling over the sordid weekend party they’re planning to go to, the goddam deviants.

  Yeah yeah, I know that they love us and everything, but would it be too much to ask that they take an interest in us? Seems that way. Right now, I just hate Mom and Dad. I really do.

  So I slip on my Dior robe and I’m truly thankful that it has long sleeves that are a little too big for me really, and I open the door. Madeleine is standing outside and she’s wearing a big fluffy towelling robe that looks like it’s wrapping her in giant soft folds. It looks just like it’s comforting her if you want to know, and I wonder if that’s why Madeleine is wearing it. It’s no substitute for Mom, who should be comforting her, though. Goddam Mom.

  ‘You okay Maddie?’

  I’m kind of concerned because she doesn’t look okay at all. She looks like she just wants to cry, and if I tell you the truth, seeing her like that makes me want to cry along with her.

  ‘Yeah, Tom. I’m okay.’

  It’s obvious that she’s not, but I’m not going to push it. She looks very tired, is how she looks. And maybe she has been crying. It’s hard to say.

  ‘Well, you take care of yourself today Maddie. I’ll stay away from school if you want me to.’

  ‘No. No, Tom. You go to school. I’m okay, honest.’

  She isn’t fooling herself and she isn’t fooling me. I’m not going to push it though. Fact is, even though I would have stayed home to be with Madeleine, I’m really desperate to get to school today. I’m tearing myself up wanting to see Sylvia. I still can’t get over her being out on the town the other night and not being in school yesterday. I’m feeling totally sick with the thoughts racing through my head and I know I’m stupid and jealous but I just can’t fight it. I hate myself for that, but I don’t know what to do to make these thoughts go away. I really don’t. So I have to go to school just to see Sylvia, even though that starts me wondering if she’ll even show up today, and that makes me feel even worse. If that’s at all possible. I’m screwed up. I know it.

  Out on the landing there, I just put an arm around Madeleine and kiss her softly on the cheek. I hear the bathroom door close behind me as I wander back to my room. Poor Madeleine.

  At school, I’m dressed in a jacket and a long sleeved shirt, for obvious reasons, even though it is a scorching hot day. The bell has just gone and the kids are all making their way over to the main doors. I’m hanging about as long as I can, hoping to see Sylvia arrive. It doesn’t look like she’s coming in again. My head feels like a swarm of wasps as I turn to follow the last few stragglers. Even my cut arm is beginning to sting and ache.

  I have geography and French this morning, but while I’m sitting in the classroom I’m not listening to a goddam word. Somehow I get away with it. I’m just staring out of the windows and wishing that I were dead. I mean that. I feel sick and tired and sorry for myself and I just think it would be better if I was dead. I’m not saying that I feel suicidal. I’m just saying that I hate the way I feel and I hate my life, and I just wish that things were the way they were a few weeks ago. Actually, that’s not quite true. What I’m really wishing is that things could be back like they were but I still had Sylvia. Not asking much, huh?

  Well, at morning break I’m sitting alone under a tree and I’m staring at the school gates. It’s like I’m hoping that Sylvia will walk through them, that she’s just late or something. I’d usually be reading a book, but this morning I’m not. I’m just staring and wallowing in my stupid self-pitying thoughts.

  ‘Hey Holden. What are you up to, sitting out here all alone?’

  The voice is coming from behind me and you know who it is just as well as I do. Besides, who else ever calls me Holden?

  She’s sitting down beside me even as I turn to look at her, and she’s wearing this amazing cotton-print summer dress with large geometric shapes in bright primary colours. I’m so pleased to see her that I almost think I’m going to be sick.

  ‘I was looking out for you yesterday.’

  Now I know that that makes me sound like a needy jerk, even as I’m saying it, but I
just can’t stop myself. What I’m really saying is that I want her to tell me where she was. And who she was with. In other words, I’m prying and I hate myself for it. She’s not falling for it though.

  ‘Oh, I just didn’t feel like coming in. Hey, you did a great job with my nails.’

  She’s just changing the subject and even I can see that, plain as day. She’s wiggling her toes and flapping her fingers in front of me and I can see that the lacquer hasn’t chipped even though it’s been a few days. But to tell the truth, I’m not even interested. Just what is it that she’s goddam keeping from me? It’s all I can do not to come straight out and ask her. Only God knows where I find the strength not to.

  ‘Yeah, I told you I was good.’

  Pretty feeble I know, but a million times better than what I want to say. Then I notice her face. It’s a little swollen and red beneath her left eye. It looks like someone has hit her. It goddam really looks like someone has hit her. It’s not as livid as it could be, so it’s probably a day or so old now.

  ‘What happened to your face?’

  I suppose that I shouldn’t have asked, but the words are out there now and I can’t take them back.

  She turns her face away.

  ‘Oh nothing. I tripped in the living room and hit my face on the coffee table. How stupid is that? You should have seen it yesterday. That’s why I didn’t come in.’

  Well come on. I’m not dumb. I know that’s a lie. She knows that’s a lie. And she knows that I know that that’s a lie. But how can I push the matter? Truth is, I’m so goddam scared of alienating her that I can’t say anything. Does that make me a coward? I sure as hell think that it does.

  ‘When did it happen?’

  As if that matters.

  ‘Wednesday night. I feel such an idiot.’