don’t move, paralyzed by Clad’s letter. I’ve been spending the whole summer and a good part of the almost six months that Clad has been locked away for, with my boyfriend. Kissing my boyfriend, playing games with my boyfriend, poring over books with my boyfriend, but what about my best friend? The best one I ever had, or will have - Clad .
Is it really fear that pushed him away? Or was it my own desire to bubble wrap myself in a cocoon of safety and predictability? When I only concern myself with Spencer and the thrift store, I live a fake and sheltered life. This letter is proof that I can only hide from reality for so long before it comes back with a vengeance, biting me in the rear. Hello , it says, I missed you .
Today I wake up from the sweet dream I’ve been living in. Everything is bitter, my life dropping its mask and revealing a hideous distorted face. Clad isn’t okay in prison; he hates me. Spencer isn’t gentle with me anymore, and Mom isn’t having a baby through wedlock. I hate myself more than I hate Miemah, more than I hate Nessa, Cecil, Latcher, and Bracker combined.
I rise from the bed and go into the kitchen. There’s a knife on the counter that Mom uses to slice apples; its blade only four inches long, thin but sharp. I sit on the tile twisting the knife in my hands. I have heard about kids who cut to relieve their pain.
I never really thought to do it because I was constantly being shredded by Miemah, anyway. It just didn’t make sense to harm myself further . But with my wounds turned to scars that fade more and more with each passing day, and my bones healed, and this empty feeling in my gut - it finally seems like a brilliant idea.
I turn my wrist up, it’s smooth and I can see the perfect veins to cut, like the strings of a harp to pluck, creating a melody. A beautiful bloody melody .
I press the tip of the blade into my skin and watch as a drop of blood pools up around it. I’m a vampire - the minute I see and smell blood, I need more. I drag the blade swiftly across my wrist. Blood trickles from the shallow cut; I clamp my hand around it and the blood seeps through my fingers.
Stinging, searing, throbbing pain.
No release. No euphoric high. Faint, weak, at the sight of my own blood dripping down my arm and onto my kitchen floor. I kick the knife and it spins under the stove.
My cellphone trills. It’s on the table above my head. Standing up, my knees weak, I grab the phone with my good hand.
“Hello?”
“Bailey, are you all right? I’ve been waiting for you,” Spencer says.
My white silk nightgown is turning red, I have my wrist pressed against it to stop the bleeding.
“Mhm,” I mumble because if I open my mouth I will vomit.
“Are you coming in today?”
“Mhm.”
“You sure you’re all right?’
“Mhmmm.”
“See you soon,” Spencer says.
I stare at my wrist, annoyed, as if it could stop bleeding if it really wanted to, but it’d rather mock me. How am I going to hide this?
I find gauze and an Ace bandage in the medicine cabinet. Awkwardly, I wrap my wrist as best I can. Throwing away my bloody nightgown, I change into a hoodie with sleeves that reach past my fingertips. I brush my hair and teeth and shove Clad’s letter into my pocket. Spencer will ask me why I’m dressed so warmly on a hot summer’s day; I have yet to think of an answer for him.
Nothing good ever comes of thinking, anyway. While I’m sitting in my car on my way to see Spencer, I try so hard to quiet my mind. The only place you can’t hide from your thoughts is inside your own head. I push away thoughts of Spencer and Clad; keep trudging through thoughts like I’m walking through the home of a hoarder - a hoarder of thoughts.
I pull into the empty parking lot at Goodwill, next to Spencer’s truck, third spot from the door. Walking into the building I find him reading books on the floor.
I sit down next to him. “I got a letter from Clad.”
“I see,” he says
Is it really fear that pushed him away? Or was it my own desire to bubble wrap myself in a cocoon of safety and predictability? When I only concern myself with Spencer and the thrift store, I live a fake and sheltered life. This letter is proof that I can only hide from reality for so long before it comes back with a vengeance, biting me in the rear. Hello , it says, I missed you .
Today I wake up from the sweet dream I’ve been living in. Everything is bitter, my life dropping its mask and revealing a hideous distorted face. Clad isn’t okay in prison; he hates me. Spencer isn’t gentle with me anymore, and Mom isn’t having a baby through wedlock. I hate myself more than I hate Miemah, more than I hate Nessa, Cecil, Latcher, and Bracker combined.
I rise from the bed and go into the kitchen. There’s a knife on the counter that Mom uses to slice apples; its blade only four inches long, thin but sharp. I sit on the tile twisting the knife in my hands. I have heard about kids who cut to relieve their pain.
I never really thought to do it because I was constantly being shredded by Miemah, anyway. It just didn’t make sense to harm myself further . But with my wounds turned to scars that fade more and more with each passing day, and my bones healed, and this empty feeling in my gut - it finally seems like a brilliant idea.
I turn my wrist up, it’s smooth and I can see the perfect veins to cut, like the strings of a harp to pluck, creating a melody. A beautiful bloody melody .
I press the tip of the blade into my skin and watch as a drop of blood pools up around it. I’m a vampire - the minute I see and smell blood, I need more. I drag the blade swiftly across my wrist. Blood trickles from the shallow cut; I clamp my hand around it and the blood seeps through my fingers.
Stinging, searing, throbbing pain.
No release. No euphoric high. Faint, weak, at the sight of my own blood dripping down my arm and onto my kitchen floor. I kick the knife and it spins under the stove.
My cellphone trills. It’s on the table above my head. Standing up, my knees weak, I grab the phone with my good hand.
“Hello?”
“Bailey, are you all right? I’ve been waiting for you,” Spencer says.
My white silk nightgown is turning red, I have my wrist pressed against it to stop the bleeding.
“Mhm,” I mumble because if I open my mouth I will vomit.
“Are you coming in today?”
“Mhm.”
“You sure you’re all right?’
“Mhmmm.”
“See you soon,” Spencer says.
I stare at my wrist, annoyed, as if it could stop bleeding if it really wanted to, but it’d rather mock me. How am I going to hide this?
I find gauze and an Ace bandage in the medicine cabinet. Awkwardly, I wrap my wrist as best I can. Throwing away my bloody nightgown, I change into a hoodie with sleeves that reach past my fingertips. I brush my hair and teeth and shove Clad’s letter into my pocket. Spencer will ask me why I’m dressed so warmly on a hot summer’s day; I have yet to think of an answer for him.
Nothing good ever comes of thinking, anyway. While I’m sitting in my car on my way to see Spencer, I try so hard to quiet my mind. The only place you can’t hide from your thoughts is inside your own head. I push away thoughts of Spencer and Clad; keep trudging through thoughts like I’m walking through the home of a hoarder - a hoarder of thoughts.
I pull into the empty parking lot at Goodwill, next to Spencer’s truck, third spot from the door. Walking into the building I find him reading books on the floor.
I sit down next to him. “I got a letter from Clad.”
“I see,” he says
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