"God you're gorgeous," Kai said suddenly, into the darkness, deep voice muffled but not drowned by the faint noise coming from the television across the room. It was playing some ancient, but not forgotten movie, which neither of us had a particular interest in. I had been asleep, before Kai woke me. I can't say I'm complaining though. His voice rumbled through my skull, from my position with my head rested upon his chest. My hair was fanned out across his stomach, painting the black of his t-shirt, with waves of white and pink. It brushed the inside of his left leg, currently propped up on the coffee table.
It was serene. Calm. Perfect.
He began to trace the underside of the skin on my left arm. His fingers brushed the artwork collected over the years of taunts and jeers and unspoken hatred. Sick beauty radiated from each, the red a beautiful contrast against the milky white of my skin. It served as a reminder of things I had overcome. Things I still can.
I was snapped into reality, with Kai saying, "You're gorgeous. Beautiful beyond words, thought processes, anything else. But these aren't," he said, signalling towards the scars, "These are the one thing about you that isn't breathtaking, stunning, enviable."
I laughed, despite his obvious serious thinking.
"Nobody's perfect," I replied, after sucking in my breathe.
"Without these," he smiled sadly, "You'd be pretty damn close."
* * *
He bought me a rubber band the next day. Picked me up from school in his Ford Fiesta from 2003 and wordlessly slipped it onto my wrist. I raise an eyebrow, but didn't question him, as he started the engine, and pulled out of the drive. I could see mum peeking out from behind the curtains of the bay window at the front of the house. Upon seeing me looking, she pretended to take great interest in the wilted pot plant on the front lawn.
Kai saw the roll of my eyes, and laughed. "Next she'll be cutting eye holes out of newspaper," he joked.
"Oh shut up you idiot, she's bad but not that bad."
"It's called a joke, Estie. I thought little miss songstress would have come across that at some point."
"I'm sorry about my detachment with human culture," I said drily. "Now that I know we're on speaking terms," I continued, "May I ask why I have a rubber band hanging off my wrist?"
He shrugged, "I don't want to see any more imperfections," he said.
"Bit hasty. Being demanding are we Mr Rock Star. Smashed any TVs yet?"
"No, but I might have to practice with your head if you don't shut up," he laughed. I pretended to cower, placing my hands over my face. "You know what I mean anyway. No more little lines of death littering your skin," I blushed sheepishly, "So, every time you think you need to cut, snap the band."
I was silent for a minute.
"Thank you." I said. Thank you didn't suffice really. I meant to say, thank you so much for loving me, and for being there, and for understanding, and for loving me, and for using my songs, and for being perfect, and for loving me.
But, by then we had pulled into the school car park, so I left it at that.
He smiled and said, "My pleasure," before getting out of the car.
* * *
Later that day, I was walking down the corridor, in between lessons. I was in sixth form (as was Kai,) Year 12, but my deputy head didn't like me, (or anyone but her cat by the sounds of things,) and gave me two in a row.
I fiddled with the red rubber band, while keeping my bag pressed to my chest. The handles had broken two days ago, so I took to carrying it from the bottom.
Two girls from my year. (Giselle and Emma? Ella?) walked past.
Giselle bumped my arm.
"Sorry," she said, in a sickly sweet voice.
As she walked away, I hear her say to Emma/Ella : "Wonder if I caught anything?" In a hushed tone.
Snap.
* * *
I was reluctant about the idea at first, but it worked. The band gave the same satisfying burn, as a blade does ; scratches the same mental itch.
My boyfriend is a tiny bit of a genius.
(Only a tiny bit.)
It was used countless times throughout the day.
Getting a question wrong in maths. Snap.
Tripping at lunch. Snap.
Bumping into a year seven in between lessons. (Poor kid.) Snap.
And many more I didn't care to mention.
It also helped in the addictive side of things too, in a sick way. When I cut, I never did at school. Always waited until I got home, and could expel all of my insecurities with one sharp flick. They were almost visible images painted in the crimson. Little scenes played out like a television screen. I always imagine bad things to be red now. Can't look at a Christmas decoration without tearing up. People say I'm nuts. I say they're right. Kai says he loves me for it. I say I love him for everything.
I saw Kai at lunch. He was sitting on a table with his friend Jake, pretending to be interested in whatever he was blabbering on about, but boredom evident in his gaze. He caught my eyes, and shot me a desperate stare, before waving me over.
I sat down, with a shy nod at Jake. He saluted, before continuing to talk.
He was obviously in his own little world ; maybe not even talking to anyone in particular. Kai used this fact as an opportunity to grab my lower arm and examine my wrist. After a minute of his face being screwed up in concentration, he dropped my hand, with a satisfied nod.
I smiled and mouthed, 'thanks again.'
He mouthed back, 'no problem.'
* * *
A week later, no new scars had appeared, only fading red marks, from rubber band therapy.
Kai and I were at a coffee shop. Ground bean or something like that.
We were sitting outside, in the sunlight, talking about everything and nothing. Mr Kipling, tag rugby, past lives and royalty. All in half an hour.
It was serene.
My legs were feeling cramped after a while, so I stretched them out under the table.
It was bloody bad timing.
Just then, a middle aged man in a suit was walking towards the door, coffee cup in hand. It was empty, but there nonetheless.
He tripped over my ankles.
I immediately went into panic mode, skin flushing, and chanting a chorus of "Oh god, I'm sorry. Sorry. Oh my god sorry. Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry."
Kai wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and asked the man if he was alright. The man ignored his question, and shouted, "WATCH WHERE YOU'RE PUTTING YOUR FEET, YOU STUPID GIRL!"
I cowered back into my seat, and a tear rolled down my cheek. The man looked fuming. Face purple, and ears red.
Kai stood up to yell back, but the man was already gone, empty coffee cup left in its place on the tarmac.
He sat back down and pulled me into his chest. I nestled into his shirt, and repeated hushed apologies into the material.
I began to scratch at my wrist, needing a release.
Kai pressed his lips to my ear.
"Rubber band Estelle," he whispered, "Rubber band baby."
Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.
* * *
It was a month later, and I was alone. Kai was sitting right next to me, and I was curled up into his side, but I was alone. We were at his house, his parents away on business in France, and we were sitting in the living room, listening to random songs on the radio.
Kai was there yet I was alone.
I needed my blade.
Even after nearly a month and a half without cutting, it was still squirrelled away, hidden inside my phone case.
I needed it.
I wasn't going to.
But I had to.
But I couldn't.
But I was.
I was getting up from the sofa, spitting out some excuse about needing the loo, and then I was running up the stairs, and towards the bathroom, and I wasn't thinking, just doing.
The bathroom door locked itself. But it didn't. It was me, but I didn't remember doing.
I did remember the next bit though. I remembered peeling the gel case off the back of my phone, and the glinting metal being exposed. I remembered it falling into the sink, with a slight 'chink' against the porcelain. I remembered scooping it up from the basin. I remembered throwing the rubber band to the floor. I remembered drawing the blade across my skin.
And then my senses were back, and crimson was pouring out of me, and there was someone pounding on the door, and it was Kai, and oh god what have I done.
I stuffed some loo roll over the cut, and unlocked the door. I was met by the relieved face of Kai.
He looked down at my wrist and sighed sadly. I leaned into his chest, and slowly soaked the material of his jumper.
He encased me within his arms, and slumped down the wall, so that I ended up in his lap.
We stayed like that for hours ; silently leaned against the shower screen in the bathroom, me in his arms. I tried to apologise many times, but each time, he just shushed me, and told me that it was okay, and that he loved me.
After some time, he picked up the rubber band, and silently placed it on my left wrist, now caked in dried blood.
I smiled.
* * *
Three months later, things were getting better.
I hadn't cut since.
* * *
Five months later, things were even better.
I hadn't cut, or snapped since.
* * *
I was standing over the bin, blade in one hand, band in the other.
I was ready, I knew I was.
Before I knew it, I was dropping the blade, feeling only a tinge of regret, as it clanged against the exposed metal of the interior.
I fingered the band for a while, before slipping it onto my wrist.
I figured, just in case.
* * *
"Do you take Kai Robert Williams to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
"I do."
I haven't cut, or snapped, for seven years.