I have too much time, I think too much when I have time. About her and the pain and the scars and my mother and the, the everything. How it is all too much, yet not enough at the same time. I want to be accepted, but the only one that will accept me now is her. And even she has limits. I can't cut, and I can't bleed, and I can't quit.
My mom used to be normal. She would bake cookies and cook supper, in an apron (cliche anyone?), volunteer for the PTA, drive a minivan, and then dad came back. He was drunk, as usual, and made a fit when mom wouldn't open the door. They yelled back and forth, mom about the restraining order, dad that he needed money, and I was upstairs looking for the razors mom had just bought. I had been cutting for a year by then.
The nurse comes in, a large syringe in hand. She says something about pain-killer, but I'm not listening. I'm busy looking at the rainbows the flouesent lights throw on the ceiling, how they make her multicolored, beyond beautiful, almost like an angel. Of course, she was an angel, she was always good. Then the rainbows darken and twist into devils, an opposite to her beautiful light and she floats down and kisses my checks as I fall asleep.
YOU ARE READING
God Save Me
Teen FictionThe face in the mirror is smiling, though it doesn't reach her eyes. Her gaze is penetrating, roaming over the scars and cuts on my body, and deeming them unacceptable.
