Mr. Hollingsworth.

Ch. 32 Battle scars.

Alexander's P.O.V.
On the fifth day there, I discovered why Alice always wore long sleeves.

Today was the worst day, my mother came out of the coma, but she was still on life support. I could see the pain etched in her once beautiful face, her brown hair was gone, leaving her head bare. Dad tried to be happy around me, but today my internal screaming and hidden tears couldn't contain my rage. Why did this happen to my mom? My dad was drinking himself to sleep every night now, and I cried myself to sleep. When I woke up this morning, I don't know what can over me, but I was so mad, so angry, so scared, so sad. I couldn't contain it anymore.

I grabbed my pocket knife, and took out the anger on the only person I could.

Myself.

Using the knife as a brush, I painted my wrists red.

The pain numbed me, and when my rage had worn off, I didn't just cut three slits. My arms were sliced up from the wrist to the elbow. Jagged, pulsing, bloody slits. It burned, and I could barely hold the knife. Instead of going to the hospital, I cleaned them, welcoming the intense nearly blinding pain. I deserved this. Slowly I'd bandaged my arms, and cleaned the blood from the floor. Then I slid on a long sleeved shirt.

I was always told to think through what you feel. Don't let your emotions dictate what you do. They say learn from your mistakes, but whenever I look at my arms, I don't feel like I've made a mistake.

I feel like I want to cut more.

That made me pause. Closing the journal, I stood up. Alice was working on the garden in front of her house. Stepping out, I saw her. She was wearing a sleeveless shirt, but I realized she was good at keeping your attention from her forearms. Sweat beaded from her forehead, and I could tell she didn't think I was there, because she lifted her shirt and wiped it away, revealing a muscular stomach, and chiseled pelvic bones. Letting the loose shirt drop, she kept gardening. How could such a bright looking girl have such a dark past? Why were the happiest people always the ones with the most secrets?

Stepping down the steps, she looked up, giving me a genuine smile. If that were me, I don't think I'd ever smile again after what she'd been through. I kept walking, and took the shovel from her hands, setting it aside. Taking her hands in my mine, I rubbed her knuckles and stared into her eyes. She was staring up at me with those grey eyes, that looked like vortexes, absorbing everything around them, and never letting it go.

Taking another step towards her, I looking at her hands in mine, and then looked at her forearms. How had I never seen those scars before? They were dark marks, like stripes, that lined her whole forearms. She noticed my staring, they didn't go above her forearms, but that's what made it more horrible. Because some overlapped, and I just stared. She looked up at me, and we made eye contact. "It was stupid decision I made when I was younger, I don't cut any more." She said, she was ashamed, but she didn't have to be.

Trailing my finger tips over her arms, I realized they were like small ridges, and my gaze flicked up to her's. "You're scars show the horror of your past, and the beauty of your present." I said, lifting her hand, I lightly kissed the largest scar that ran jagged across her wrist. "They don't make your skin ugly, they show how strong you are. Letting them become a memory instead of you becoming a memory shows your strength Alice." I continued, and I kissed her lips lightly. She gave me a weak little smile, and hugged me. I hugged her back.

"Thank you Alexander, for not judging me."

"I, Ms. Jones, am in no position to judge you, whatsoever."

Alice grinned at me, shoving the shovel into my hands.

"While you're out here, use that to get rid of those." She jerked her thumb to a tangle of weeds. I gave her a salute.

"Yes ma'am!"