22 Scars

22 Scars

Copyright © 2017 by Christopher North

This edition 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-3702-1861-5

For it: the black shadow across the mind;

For her: who suffered so much and survived;

And for you: whomsoever has known the darkness.

In the City

The late summer sun is a drop of blood over the rooftops, and the girl in the park is sitting in the last rays passing between old brick buildings.

It’s a small park, not much more than a few benches and a couple of old trees; a refuge in a town that is huge and busy. The trees haven’t begun to turn yet, and the grass and paths are golden in the spaces between their leaves. There are people passing through, but they are few and don’t spare the girl a glance.

The girl is sixteen. A cigarette hangs in her hand, ash burned back almost to her fingertips. Black hood over her head and black jeans to her boots, she’s a darker shadow in the shade of the trees. A lock of crimson hangs forward, and her small silver nose ring glints a little. Under the hoodie is a lace top, black also, and at her breast is a silver pendant: a crucifix, entwined with snakes. A choker holds a black glass heart with a skull inside.

Her eyes—hazel—are on the ground, and they wince as the ash burns to her fingers, but she doesn’t let go; only bites her black-stained lip. Not until the purse by her side vibrates does she drop the butt, conscientious enough to crush it. She reaches into the bag, past the ID that says she’s twenty-one, to pull out a small battered phone. The little screen says, where r u.

She fiddles and sends a reply; stows the phone again. She raises her eyes—not her head—and looks: the trees, the pigeons, the passers-by. There is a brief moment when only the girl and the squirrels are in the park, and she gets up, the purse strap across her chest and her hands deep in the hoodie.

Her walk is slow, a little shuffling, her head always down. Her boots are good leather, well-worn, and tap gently against the pavement. They guide her along a path out of the park, though she steps to the grass to avoid the people who are once again passing through.

She leaves the park and steps onto a sidewalk that runs along the narrow street, cars parked tight in the gutter. She turns, follows the iron fence to the corner. Her head is always down, and she steps onto the street to a screech and the blast of a horn.

Stopped in the middle of the street, a battered pickup continues to scream at her.

The fuck, girl! What the hell’s wrong with you?

She looks up now, stares at the driver; her breath is quick and her eyes empty.

Get the fuck out of the way!

She moves, still slow, and the truck revs and lumbers past, Crazy bitch! echoing after. In her pockets, nails dig into palms. On the other side she continues, passing into shadow.

Small shops line the street, most closing up, one of the few parts of town that sleep. Run down and tired, garbage bags on the street, shopkeepers and pizzas on bicycles accompany her on her way. Sometimes she does look up here, at rusted fire escapes or the gothic detailing under the windows, but never at the people.

For some blocks she continues, past shops and brownstones, and sometimes trees pierce the paving and rustle above. Most of these homes are split apartments, and it is at one of these she finally stops. At the top of the steps is a buzzer, and she pauses here for a moment.

The door is glass-paned and she presses against it. The hall inside is dark and difficult to see, but she waits nonetheless and peers. With her other hand she pulls the hoodie closer around her. For some time she looks, and then relaxes back and sighs hard. She looks up and down the street; several people pass her without caring, but no one else mounts the steps.

Stepping back, she looks up to the windows above and finally presses the buzzer. The sound is loud and crackles, and she doesn’t hold it for long.

After a moment, a grainy voice says, Yeah?

It’s me.

Hey, is that Amy? Come on in.

The buzzer again, long and loud, and a click. Amy pushes open the door and steps inside.

Bethany

My parents split when I was seven, and it kind of messed me up. I never thought it was all my fault like everyone wants to believe—they both talked to me a lot about it. It was Dad’s fault, and we all know it. My feelings were a lot more complicated, and I guess I still haven’t got it all worked out.

My dad’s an alcoholic. I guess I didn’t really know what that meant when I was seven. He just drank a lot of beer, which is what I thought all dads were supposed to do. Maybe he didn’t know what it meant, either. He and Mom fought a lot, and she’d scream at him just as much as he did. He never hit her—he never laid a hand on either of us—but I always got scared when they fought, and I’d hide in my room and cry.

I never felt like it was my fault, but I did feel guilty. When Dad took a day off work and we hung out, we had such good times that I thought days with him were what the world was made for. Sometimes it was just a simple trip to the park; sometimes he took me into the city and we’d go to a museum. Not the boring kind, though—he knew the ones that had dinosaur bones and medieval armor and children’s boots from a hundred years ago. Sometimes, on a rainy day, we’d just stay at home all day and play board games and listen to heavy metal.

And my mom … she was just there. She was there when I needed her, and there when I didn’t. My mom was the one I talked to when Kayla tripped me in the hallway and laughed when my stockings split right in the back. She was the one who made a cake for me when Jess didn’t invite me to her birthday. She was the one who screamed down the phone at Rob’s parents because he called me a bitch, even though I didn’t know what it meant.

It wasn’t the last time I’d be called that.

No; I love my parents, and I’m pretty sure they love me too. The reason I felt so guilty about the divorce is that there wasn’t anything I could do. My parents had always told me I could do anything I put my mind to, and here was something I couldn’t do anything about. Nothing.

Deep down, though, I think it might have been for the best. When I’m with Mom, I miss Dad. In the summer when I’m with Dad, I really miss Mom. But at least I’m with them. If they were still together (that’s if they hadn’t killed each other), I’d probably be sitting in my room all day staring at the floor and daydreaming about suicide.

A little bit like Amy.

Amy’s my good friend, and I really feel sorry for her. She always seems so depressed, but sometimes she smiles and then her eyes are really pretty. They have a kind of green in them, but you only notice it when you’re not looking for it. Her parents are still together, but I don’t think they care about her at all. I could never tell her, but I have a really huge crush on her.

She doesn’t have a whole lot of friends, either. I mean, the guys at school, they don’t mind her, but she never talks to anyone. She used to spend time with Jay before he went to college, but now she kind of just hangs out and follows me around, which is actually really cute. It’s another reason I like her.

I try to invite her over when I can. During the school year, we live close, and she usually walks over. She doesn’t drive, and she walks or takes the bus everywhere.

In the summer it’s a little harder, because I live with my dad, who moved back to the city after the divorce. I mean, it’s not that far—we all go in sometimes on weekends—but it’s over an hour on the subway for Amy. This summer was especially chaotic because Dad took me to visit his brother out of town, so basically I don’t think she saw anybody for two months.

She seemed really pleased to come over to my dad’s the weekend before school started. It’s funny—I can tell, even though she’s usually so morose. My dad let her up into the apartment, and she was just kind of standing there when I came into the kitchen. Dad was trying to force some stale chips into her hands and offering her a beer, which was embarrassing enough without him being shit-faced as well.

I grabbed the beer from my dad. He was already out of it, and he pretty much mumbled when he said, Who do you think you are, your mom? This guy don’t need anyone to take care of him.

Right. All those TV dinners are keeping you in great shape, I teased him. I slapped his belly.

He grabbed me in a big hug, and I screamed for fun. Get lost, kid, he said.

I kissed him on the cheek and dragged Amy into my room. I wasn’t quite finished with my routine: purple lipstick, the dark eyeliner, the crucifix earrings all had to go on.

Amy asked me about my summer, and I told her. I asked her about hers, and she told me in about three words. Then there was silence for a while. I don’t usually mind; I know she’s not being rude or awkward—it’s just how she is. I thought about asking her what she wanted to do tonight, but I already knew she was just going to tag along with the rest of us, wherever we ended up going. Probably some dumb dance club; some of the guys aren’t big on metal.

It didn’t take me long to finish getting ready—five minutes, maybe—when out of the blue Amy blurted out, I started cutting again.

Jeez. I thought she’d decided to quit. You know I don’t like it when you do that, I told her. I could see her in the little broken mirror I had, sitting on the edge of my bed. She was staring down at the floor. I didn’t want her to feel bad, but it upsets me when she does stuff like that to herself.

I had to, she said. I didn’t answer that; there wasn’t much point. I kept looking at her in the mirror. There was this guilty, self-loathing look on her face—a sort of curl to the lip. I sighed, and I turned around and took her hand. For once, she didn’t pull it away.

Let me see, I asked. She didn’t say anything, but let me pull her arm forward and roll up her sleeve a little. Sure enough, there were the fresh marks—some of them crusted with scabs, some just raised and red. All these little slashes. What did you use?

She shrugged. I got some new razors. They’re really good, actually—I get a deep cut without a whole lot of pain.

I scowled at her. That’s a good thing?

All she did was shrug again. I sighed again, and gave her her arm back. I grabbed my boots and started pulling them on. I love these boots—they have huge platforms, which is great because I’m not tall, and purple flames up the sides with a chrome skull on the tongue. I love purple. They hurt like hell, though.

You told me you were going to quit cutting, or quit smoking, I reminded her. Does that mean you’ve cut the cigarettes?

I saw her roll her eyes this time, and it made me smirk—I’d gotten her to stop moping for a second. I’ve cut back, she said. I only had one today, on the way here.

It was a good moment, and I looked right at her: You’re stopping. We both are. After tonight.

She smiled, and I laughed. It felt good. Within a few minutes we were down on the street again, on our way to meet the guys and try to fake it into a club. Jay had said he was going to try and come; I didn’t quite know how to feel about that. If he made it, he’d probably cheer her up for a bit, and of course I’d get jealous. I don’t really know what it was between them, or if it’s still there. The way she looks at him, talks about him … I’m still not sure.

The world’s so unfair, but sometimes you get a tiny glimpse of something else, something better. Pulling gently at Amy’s hand, guiding her through the city and talking about everything and nothing—people tell me I feel too much, but I live for these little moments of happiness. It hurts so much when she’s sad, and sometimes I wish I could just take all her pain away. Just carry it all myself, and let her be at peace.

If only.

A Day

6:29 AM.

The faint pattering of rain sounds from beyond the window, but the black curtain refuses to let the dismal morning light in.

What light there is comes from the soft red glow of the clock, the flashing display of the stereo, the tiny glint of reflection on Amy’s eyes as she lies in bed. The eyes stare emptily at the black ceiling.

The alarm goes off, buzzing in patterns, first once, then twice, then three times. For a full minute it continues its din. A hand flails and hits it to silence.

The bedside light flicks on; the room is awash in its glow, shadows murky. Amy’s eyes still stare.

A bird calls through the rain, and Amy pulls back the covers. An overlarge t-shirt is draped across her shoulders, and the blood is dried and cracked on her arms. She sits up. Cuts are on the inside of her thigh as well—not as deep.

She examines the cuts. The dried blood is black in the dim light; she scrapes it away, lets it fall to the floor. Beneath, the deeper cuts ooze, the lighter ones raised and swollen.

When she stands, she takes a towel from the floor and drapes it over her shoulders. She wraps it tight, and the cuts are hidden. She unlatches her door, leaves the room in dim light, and steps out into the hallway.

.,

7:15 AM.

The father is hiding behind a newspaper; black coffee steams beside him. The kitchen lights are bright, dawn missing from the sky. Thick, dark clouds peer through the window instead, pouring rain down on the lawn.

The mother is not up.

There are footsteps on the stairs; Amy appears in the kitchen. Dressed in black, wet hair, glasses on. Her nose ring isn’t in. She walks across the kitchen for the coffee pot, still hot on the counter. Opening the cupboard, she takes down a large mug.

You shouldn’t drink so much coffee, the father says. He doesn’t look up. You’re too young.

I’m almost seventeen.

You’re too young, he repeats.

There are kids at school who do drugs. Would you rather I do that instead?

If they’re taking drugs, they’re fucking idiots. His tone is calm, dispassionate. You’re an idiot too, if you do that shit.

I don’t, she says.

The father shrugs. Okay.

There is no further conversation. Amy takes a sip and walks past her dad again.

You’re not going to eat? he asks.

I’m not hungry, she replies.

How come you never eat breakfast?

Amy shrugs. I don’t know. Just never feel like it, I guess.

You’re going to become anorexic, he comments. Still dispassionate.

Better than being fat. She walks out of the kitchen; the father makes no reply. He flips another page of the newspaper.

Amy takes the coffee back to her room. The mother passes her in the hall. Good morning.

Amy doesn’t reply as she walks into her room. The door clicks shut.

She takes a large sip of the coffee, and the mug goes on the nightstand. She throws herself onto the bed, back to the wall. From the nightstand, she unplugs the cell phone. The screen blinks to life, and she reads the message on the screen.

car in shop. cant drve 2day. xoxo

Amy drops the phone on the bed and leans back again, looking to the window. I hate rain, she mutters.

She grabs the coffee, taking another big sip. Holding the still-steaming mug between her hands now, she warms her fingers. For some minutes she remains still, eyes closed, motionless except for the occasional sip. After a while, her tension relaxes a little; it’s ten minutes before she moves again. She looks at the clock.

Shit.

Quicker now, she puts the mug back on the nightstand. Leaning over, she grabs her battered backpack from the floor and opens it, looking through the contents for a moment before opening the drawer in her nightstand.

There’s a lot of stuff in it. Chains, necklaces, cheap jewelry, keys. She hesitates, looking intently at the nightstand, the drawer still open. Impulsively, she digs into the very back and pulls out a small square plastic box. She drops it into the backpack and zips it up. A last gulp of coffee, and she stands to unlock the door.

.,

10:17 AM.

Amy is in a stall in the girls’ bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet lid. Around her are the sounds of other girls going about their business, chattering.

Amy’s bag is near her feet, one of its many pockets open. She stares down into it, motionless. The sounds around her gradually diminish as the last girl leaves the bathroom.

Eventually, Amy reaches into the open pocket and, after some fumbling, withdraws the small plastic box from her nightstand drawer. It rests in her hand, her eyes on it. With a quick, decisive movement, she releases a catch on the box and slides out a single-edged razor. The box goes back in the bag.

Amy pushes up her right sleeve, the blade in her left hand. Running up her forearm are dozens of scars—all sizes. A few are still raised and red. All cut across her arm, left to right. The razor comes to rest on a smooth patch of skin, a place where there aren’t yet marks. She draws it gently across her arm, leaving the smallest of scratches behind.

She repeats this a dozen times until her arm is lacerated with tiny scratches. None are bleeding. A growl of frustration passes her lips. She rests the blade again against her skin with no pressure at all. A minute passes.

The bell rings for the end of recess. With a jolt of surprise the razor bites deep and leaves an inch-long gash. For a moment pure white flesh shows before the cut wells and fills with blood, swiftly overflowing. A drop slides down her arm.

Fuck.

Quickly, the blade still in her hand, she unwinds a length of toilet paper and wraps it around her arm until the blood no longer seeps through the tissue. Another growl.

Gently she lowers her sleeve, stretching it over the toilet paper, and feels for the makeshift bandage to make sure it’s still in place.

She puts the razor back in its box; the box back in her bag. She stands and leaves the stall. A touch of blood remains on the hanging roll of toilet paper.

.,

12:49 PM.

Amy doesn’t eat lunch. She stays in the senior lounge, alone, huddled in the corner. Once most of the students are gone, she rests her head on her knees, dozes off. She doesn’t move for an hour.

.,

3:09 PM.

Pencils scratch.

Amy is the only one not doing anything. The teacher doesn’t seem to want to do anything about it. She could be asleep; her head is face down resting on her folded arms on the desk. Her breathing is slow and shallow; her glasses are on the edge of the desk.

The rain has started again and patters against the