Caution: Trigger Warning
“What the fuck have you been doing?” The angry voice breathed through the receiver.
“I hung out with Calum today. I told you,” I picked at my fingernails.
“For two hours? How long does it take to eat?”
“We talked a bit. Calm down.” I shifted my attention to the ends of my dark hair, which definitely needed to be cut.
“Did you suck his dick? Fuck him?” He spat and I gasped at loud, dropping the section of hair I had been fiddling with.
“Excuse me? No, I didn’t fuck him.” I rolled my eyes at his immaturity. “You need to relax.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well you should,” I scoffed. He was unbelievable, and I was not the type to find jealousy attractive.
He was silent as I chewed on my lip. He grunted and then released a sigh.
“Sorry, I’m just scared you’ll leave me.” I smiled at that.
“I won’t. You’re being paranoid. I’m gonna go do homework, but I’ll text you later.”
“Bye Cass,” he said quietly.
“Bye Parker,” I chirped, hoping to better his mood. I didn’t actually head for my homework, but for my laptop, opening up Cedar’s site.
‘God, she’s beautiful. I missed her.’
Cedar never usually posted personal stuff, except for when the blog was new and no one knew about it. I think once people from school found it, he stopped talking about himself. That was sort of sad- he had no outlet for his emotions. I hope he had someone as great as himself to talk to. I knew a lot of really great people ended up feeling the most alone. I glanced at my left wrist, a secret covered by a grey knit cardigan. The itching had returned; the urges and the unbearable voices. I returned my attention to the screen, ignoring my mind’s distressed and needy state.
I scrolled through the questions until I got bored, and just laid there staring at the ceiling. I should have done my homework, but I kept thinking of Parker, my mother, and Calum.
I was scared of Parker. That couldn’t be okay, right? I shouldn’t be scared of him. He’s my boyfriend. And Calum. He seemed so… off today. I couldn’t exactly place what it was, possibly just discomfort after not seeing me for so long? I hoped it wouldn’t last. I’d talk to Luke and hopefully figure it out. As for my mother, maybe I could spend more time with her? Maybe I could tell her where I am more often? Maybe I could bring home my friends? She wouldn’t appreciate them all being boys. My only real girl friend was Samantha. I thought maybe me and Andrea could be friends, except when I got my nails done with her and Sam I realized I couldn’t fucking stand her. She was rude and stuck-up and just not my cup of tea.
As I lay there, occupying myself with absolutely nothing but my overwhelming thoughts, I realized I didn’t really have anything besides the few people in my life. If I wasn’t spending time with Parker or Sam, I was alone in my room doing nothing, really. Homework, actually, which I would drag out for countless hours by staring at the wall until I remembered the pen in my hand. I needed something to do.
I wasn’t necessarily good at anything, though. I couldn’t draw or paint or do sports or sing or dance. I was just sort of there. Just existing, floating through life but not ever standing out or doing anything.
This made me incredibly sad to think about, and I felt a flare shoot up my veins, begging for my attention.
You could disappear and no one would notice.
I could get a job. I suggested this once to my parents, before we moved, and my father scoffed at the idea.
“Don’t we give you enough, Cassandra? Is that it? Your needs aren’t being met?” His voice was drenched in sarcasm, but that wasn’t what I had meant at all. I didn’t feel like explaining that I needed to get out of the house, that I needed more in my life. He’d probably scold me, saying I was never at home and always out with boys and that I seemed pretty busy most of the time, ‘if you ask me.’
My head began to ache with my thoughts jumping so quickly from one to the next.
“Stop,” I urged the current of intermingled words flowing through my mind to cease. I felt like nothing drastic was going on in my life, yet I couldn’t stop thinking. I thought of my parents, and how I didn’t even know what to think about them. Did I hate them? Did I love them? Did I really even feel sorry for them?
Where these questions, seemingly random, were coming from I had no idea. I begged myself to relax, to slow down. But there was no stopping the thoughts once they came on.
You don’t get to hate them, they get to hate you. You’re a fucking disappointment.
Parker. Why did I ever get involved with him? Why was I questioning our stupid relationship so much after one jealous phone call? I needed a reality check. The boy was amazing to me, nothing but sweet and kind and he showed no glimpses of the behavior displayed at the party.
That party.
You’re a fucking whore.
If Calum hadn’t shown up, I don’t know what I would’ve done. My thoughts always went back to Calum.
Rape was one of my biggest fears. At my old school… I knew it was coming. If I hadn’t gotten out of there, the names, the fake videos, the rumors, they’d have become real. Someone would have done something to me. I could tell.
Tears are hot on my cheeks as I think of Parker and the rumors and squeeze my eyes shut with blood surging through my veins when I wish it wasn’t. I wish I wasn’t here. I’m gasping for air and seem paralyzed, unable to open my eyes as I begin to sob out loud. My body shakes and I don’t know what’s come over me. I haven’t had one of the weekend of the party. My wrists are wanting and I decide to deliver.
Somehow, I manage to get out of bed and rush to the bathroom to find the only constant in my life: my blade. Within seconds it was out from where I had hid it and up against the fading scars on my wrist. Normally, I cut my hips in the shower, but I didn’t have the patience to peel off my jeans. The blade did it’s job, parting my skin in multiple places, leaving me with blood trickling down my pale skin as my eyes widened at the site. No matter how many times I cut myself and felt the relief rush through me, the aftermath would always astound me. I cleaned myself up quickly. I returned to my computer, still opened to Cedar’s blog.
'I can’t stop cutting myself. I try but I can’t. You don’t have to reply, I just had to tell someone. Anyone. I have no one.'
I submitted my whining to Cedar before I had time to overthink it, and hurried downstairs to get out of my house, out of my head. I didn’t feel like walking all the way to Leo’s for coffee, but there was another cafe nearby, near the park me and Parker went to. I walked along for about fifteen minutes, just listening to the sounds around me, watching everyone who passed by carefully. I wondered what was going on with them. I wondered if they were happy.
I couldn’t get into the cafe fast enough and I needed coffee to ease my headache. The smell was calming and the warmth was nice against my chilled body. There were few people sitting at the small tables, and I took a seat against the window. People fluttered in and out, and a middle aged woman with a nice smile approached me, taking my order, and retreating behind a door. Moments later, she reappeared with an order that was not mine and approached a table. At that table sat a couple, probably in their late twenties. The woman looked down while she spoke, and the man seemed incredibly angry. They were whispering, so, although they sat close by, I couldn’t make out what they were saying. She placed a sandwich down before the man, and what I assumed was coffee before the woman. As she turned her back, the man spoke up.
“What the fuck is this?” His hateful voice rang out. The woman next to him, seeming tired and clearly distressed, murmured something to him, placing her hand on his arm. He shoved her off roughly. “Don’t touch me.”
“Sorry, sir, what seems to be the problem?”
“This is what you call a sandwich? It’s falling apart.”
“Mark, please don’t,” the woman’s sweet voice came out louder than before.
“Shut the fuck up!” He stood up. “Let’s go Katherine. This is a fucking waste,” he spit on the sandwich before storming out of the restaurant. He actually spit on it. I watched the woman apologize repeatedly for her husband’s actions, quickly placing money onto the table. I noticed the woman had a series of bruises on both arms, along with a very dark scar on her wrist that could only be the result of a deep cut. As I finally got a good look at her face, I nearly gasped at the bruise her left eye held. She had tried so hard to cover it with makeup, you could tell, but it was too severe. She rushed out after the man. I watched her run across the street through the window, stepping into a white car. The man was fuming and clearly yelling. I suddenly couldn’t stomach anything, not even coffee, and found my feet carrying me out the door and running back home.
She should leave him. She should leave him.
It’s too late.
She should’ve left him the first time.
She was scared. Scared of losing him, scared of him.
The scar on her wrist.
It’s too late. We always realize when it’s too late.
im so sorry its been like 3 weeks but im writing this instead of my sophomore speech so love me
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