Smile On His Lips and Cuts On His Hips (Jalex)

Forty Two - And The Ending

I sighed when Alex asked about my Spanish final, explaining that half my answers had been guesses as we pulled out of the school's parking lot. The side of my head was pressed against the window's glass.

Alex noticed my dull disappointment and promised that it didn't matter, that Finals didn't alter much, not in relation to our grades or our overall lives.

"I know," I said. The blasting air conditioning numbed my skin. "I know that, but it doesn't feel like it."

I didn't elucidate further, instead repressing the wish that I'd done better, known more. I didn't give a single fuck about my ability to speak Spanish, but any inadequacy awakened my insecurity enough for it to consume another section of my mind.

"Least it's over," Alex offered frailly, letting out a breath. "Finally summer."

I nodded, tilting my head to watch Alex drive. His sight flicked between the mirrors, grip loose on the wheel, speed edging slightly over the limit. He was a reasonable driver despite his predilection to shocking sensations. Reasonable when I was next to him, anyways.

"So, final thoughts on junior year?" Alex asked, eyebrow raising.

"Definitely the worst year of my life." I replied, examining my left arm. I turned it over slowly, eyes inching over the initial cuts, the stubborn scar, the Y burned beneath my wrist. They were completely faded now, almost invisible, almost gone.

But not quite. Not completely. Never would be.

"But," I continued, unwilling to cast the year as completely dismal, regardless of the amount of pain that tinged my recollection of it, "I also started going out with this guy who's kinda cool, so it could've been worse."

I paused, thinking back to after my Spanish exam, when I'd slid my desecrated pencil past a broken zipper and into a case that still contained slicing scissors, sharp edges whose capabilities should've never been known but would forever stain my thoughts. "Well, not by much. But it could've."

"You're always so positive," Alex said. Sarcasm deadened his words.

"What'd you think of it?"

"Junior year?" He was quiet for a moment, considering, slowing towards a red light. I swirled the ice around my cup of tea, examining the spiral formed by the liquid.

The brake was released and we drifted forwards, Alex deciding, "It was more of the same. A bit better, I guess. I've got you and I don't have any new scars."

My eyes stuck on him, observing the shift of his jaw and the droop of his eyes as he said, "It doesn't feel like an accomplishment. It should, but it doesn't. I've been clean for a long time but it hasn't really made me any happier. It should've, right?"

"I don't think that's really how it works, Lex. Correlation isn't that direct. Cutting helps with the bad, right? But its part of the bad, so it kind of cancels itself out." I shifted in my seat, hands tugging at my shirt. "Less cuts, less relief, more detrimental thoughts. You're keeping the internal inside instead of making it external."

Worried that that sounded like an endorsement for him returning to slicing up his skin and wanting to direct the thoughts contorting Alex's face somewhere productive, I added, "It is good, though, babe. Making mental grievances physical just gives them more lasting power. You don't need those reminders."

He didn't indicate if he agreed with me or not, instead sweeping his sight across the windshield and lowly asking, "Am I ever gonna stop wanting it?"

I sunk further into the seat, the words holding me down. I'd been clean, recently, hadn't utilized any shining razors because the pain and the blood didn't seem appealing, but my attraction to that idea had disappeared along with my interest in everything else. I'd almost liked the beginning better, with the choking sobs and the torn scabs, than this present, with the colorless haze and the stifling apathy.