The Way She Feels

“Blah, blah, blah… number and gender!”

I pull myself from a deep daze just in time to hear my teacher finish reciting her favorite grammar rule, slamming my fist against the desk along with the rest of the eighth graders in my Spanish One class.

The reverberating thud brings me back to earth completely as the sound resonates through my skull, fating my daydreams to an abrupt end. A white sheet of paper floats gracefully from my teacher’s wrinkly, calloused hand, landing miraculously in the center of my creaky old desk.
*Great, another assignment.*
The paper is warm against my fingertips, fresh from the copy machine, as I pick it up to study the questions. The excitement of learning a new language had hit rock bottom, as well as my grade. All too aware of this tiny problem, I turn to copy answers from the girl seated behind me in a feeble attempt avoid failing the class. I realize the only writings on the girl’s paper are “S-H-E-A,” scrawled carelessly on a thin black line at the top of the page; obviously no help to me. I know this girl; well, I know of her. Our paths intertwine as we share many of the same teachers and friends. However, we don’t talk to each other much. We typically act indifferent to the other’s presence. But today, she annoys me. The blinding white of blank spots on her paper mock me as I glance at the clock hanging above the door; the hands revealing a mere two minutes until the end of class.

Now desperate for a couple easy answers, I stare at her hand, and silently wish it to move. Suddenly, her fingers twitch, moving her pencil toward the paper and filling me with false hope that she will answer a question. Instead, the involuntary and innocent twitch causes her wristband to slide down ever so slightly. With the loss of their hiding place, angry red cuts reveal themselves. Shocked, my gaze immediately flies up to the girl’s dark brown eyes with a knowing look. Her eyes flash with shame and fear. In an attempt to calm her fear, I reach out and point to a spot on the worksheet.

“I think the answer to that one is ‘a,’” I say, never looking away from her face. Thoroughly fooled at my statement, Shea looks to where I’m pointing. When she realizes she had heard useless words and I had pointed to blank spot in the margin of the paper, her face twists with confusion. Her gaze lingers on my hand then she grasps the message I was actually sending her. She looks at me with understanding. The fear in her eyes fades away, and empathy takes hold. I swiftly replace my arm in its safe, hidden position on my lap, not wishing to expose my secret any longer.

* * *

Infuriated from another argument with my mom, I make the slow, echoing walk towards the back corner of my house, passing through my older brother’s former bedroom to reach my own. After entering my room, I shut my door with angry and unnecessary force. A drop of satisfaction creeps in as a mirror wobbles precariously on its hook in response to the slammed door’s aftershock. The satisfaction morphs instantaneously into disappointment as I realize a broken mirror would have pissed off my dear mother a great deal. I stare accusingly at the still-hanging mirror. Nothing ever happens the way I want: Everything is out of my control. My only safe haven is my bedroom; a small cube I’ve inhabited for each of the fourteen years of my life; the white ceiling barely high enough to escape the touch of fingertips from my outstretched arm, and the four walls shiny and green like a polished granny smith apple. A sweet, fruity smell invades my nostrils; a byproduct of my daily use of Herbal Essences hairspray. This room is who I am. Trapping myself within the confines of my tiny bedroom makes me feel free; free to scream with all my energy; free to choke out sobs from deep within my chest; free to let tears pour from my eyes, tickling my chin as each tear drops to ground; free to escape. My anger burns through me, reducing the rest of my emotions to a pile of smoldering ashes. A shiny glint captures my attention despite my teary vision. Like a moth towards a flame, I propel myself towards the gleam. It is a reflection of the light from a nearby lamp on a glossy handle. I grasp the cold, hard handle and open the door to my escape. The original discovery of this escape was not intentional. During a time of blindness, I stumbled through a door, unaware of the path it would lead me down. I had heard of such a path’s existence through numerous books and movies. Neither of which allowed the reality of it to reach past my eyes. It is distant and unreal in my formerly naïve life. Now, I know firsthand the cold feeling of unforgiving steel against my flesh; releasing my anger in the only way I know how.

* * *

“Here, try this pair!” my mother instructs joyously, pulling a box of shoes from the shelf at Kohl’s. We shop due to boredom and cabin fever, taking advantage of the unseasonably warm day in March. My mom prances about the store, happy to be out and about. She promises me a new pair of shoes, her way of apologizing for any previous arguments. I find a vacant bench to sit on while my mother makes her way toward me. When she hands a shoe box to me, I extend a bare arm to retrieve it, temporarily forgetting my earlier decision to wear a cool, short-sleeved shirt in place of warmer, long sleeved one. The fabric falls softly on my shoulders but fails miserably at hiding the numerous red marks on the underside of my arm.

“Destinie, what are all those cuts from?” She questions, her eyes wide with immediate worry as they take in images of cuts and scratches all along my arm. Her emotions fight with another, using her face as a battlefield. In mere milliseconds, her expression contorts to a mixture of concern, disbelief, fear, and disappointment.

“Oh, I was playing with the kittens,” I respond, voicing the first lie that comes to mind and easily ending the visible battle taking place. Her eyes relax and the corners of her lips slide upward into an easy smile. Her head nods with trust, filling me to the brim with shame and disgrace. She walks away without a care to continue her quest for shoes, leaving me alone with the thoughts in my head and the cuts on my arm.

A battle of my own begins as thoughts race through my head, scattered like Scrabble tiles in a small dark bag; hard to organize and hard to connect.

~That was way too close.~

*Too close? You just lied to your mother’s face.*

~I didn't have a choice. She would die if she knew!~

*Because it’s wrong! How can something you are ashamed of truly help you?*

As this question takes flight in my head, the flurry of thoughts ceases immediately. The lone question flies in circles, waiting for an answer. But an answer will not come. If it weren’t wrong, I wouldn’t be ashamed. My vice and my addiction, while bringing me temporary release, only replace my pain and anger with shame and fear. I constantly worry about the possible exposure of my secret, leaving me subject to the cruel judgment of my peers. If my parents find out, it will slice their hearts to pieces. Oh, and there’s the utter disappointment of not living up to their ridiculous expectations. I am the “good” one of the bunch. Big Sis is a druggie and a whore. Big Brother is a smart-ass and a slacker. Therefore, Mommy and Daddy expect me to be the perfect child; proof that Mommy isn’t a completely horrible parent. But, perfection escapes me. It resides in a completely different universe. Insolence replaces good manners my parents worked so hard to instill in me. Profanities litter my once innocent speech. My enviable grades plummet. A strange 14 year old leads my life. I don’t know who she is anymore, and I really do not like her. Every cut will undoubtedly turn to a scar. These scars will haunt me forever. They will act as permanent reminders of the person I have become; this person I hate. Something has to give. Someone has to go. I choose the stranger. I want to be me again, but I know it won’t be easy.

Suddenly, my mother’s voice shakes me from my reverie. I glance down to my hands and realize they are holding onto the frayed shoelaces of my scuffed, worn-out tennis shoes. I had frozen while taking off my shoes, paused and forgotten like an old, boring movie. I quickly tie the strings into a tight bow, and then hand the unopened box of new shoes to my mother.

“They didn’t fit right.” I inform her. Another lie. But, any thoughts of shoes have long exited my mind. My mother sighs, a sign that she, too, has lost her excitement for shopping and wishes to return home. I stand and follow behind her as she leads the way to her beloved plum Monte Carlo. I climb in the passenger seat, unsure if I am completely ready for the ride ahead.

* * *

With our arms draped heavily over each other’s shoulders, Shea and I slowly zigzag down the rutted driveway. Our destination is a huge diesel truck, as dark and blue as the depths of the ocean. The truck plays tricks with our eyes, frequently disappearing as it blends in with the night’s darkness. The brisk autumn air nips at our skin, causing us to yearn for the warm sunshine we had enjoyed during Oktoberfest just hours earlier. So far, the day has been jam-packed with fun and laughter, but it’s not over yet. Now, we are going to go to Cedar Rock Haunted Trail with our friends Caleb, Josh, and Matt. Drunk with anticipation for our first haunted attraction of the year, Shea and I stumble; temporarily right ourselves; then fall without a shred of grace as our legs tangle.

SPLASH!

With all the luck in the world, we manage to land in a very wet and very muddy puddle of dark brown rainwater. Shea and I look at each other in shock, and then erupt in hysterics. The guys turn around to see the source of all the commotion. They look at each other with wonder upon seeing us sprawled in the puddle. Simultaneously, each shrugs his shoulders in confusion and shakes his head in disbelief. They climb into the truck to escape the wind’s attacks. Still attempting to catch her breath after the uncontrollable fits of laughter, my best friend climbs to her feet and extends a muddy hand to help me stand. The offer reveals to my eyes alone multiple dark scars on her wrist. My own scarred arm stretches toward the waiting hand. Our hands meet and she grips mine tightly. She pulls me to my feet with ease. We do not mention our countless battles in a victorious war, which consist of many setbacks. Instead, we replace our arms to the places they had occupied before our messy bout of clumsiness. We hold each other up, the same way we have for the last three years, ever since that day in Señora Humphrey’s class.

With smiles still permanently planted on our faces, we finish the miniature trek to truck. After a little silent prodding and a perceptive wink from Shea, I climb into the front passenger seat next to Josh. He looks at me and flashes an innocent smile and a deep shyness suddenly overwhelms me. I sit with my hands folded in my lap, watching him from the corner of my eye. My bashfulness goes unnoticed with the synchronized babble of my four companions. The babble grows louder as the engine roars to life and the truck pulls forward, leaving behind fleeting memories of painful pasts.

* * *

♫All alone the way she feels
Left alone to deal with all the pain-drenched sorrow relief
Bite the lip just forget the bleeding♫

(Between the Trees)