One Minute Till Tomorrow

Chapter Sixteen

Summary of my Summer: an Essay by Gwen Lighton

First off, every time Signe called me just to call me a whore or a slut, I cut.

Every time I ran into Tristan or Signe, I cut because they’d call me a whore or a slut of accuse me of random shit.

Every time my mom ran off after work and drank, I cut.

Every time I took another goddamn depression pill, I felt the need to cut—but I didn’t have time.

So, as you could guess, after two and a half month, I had small red marks all over my hands, my wrist, and even my calves. All of the small red scars reminded me of a quote. A lot of things remind me of quotes. The quote goes like this, “You cannot just erase the thing you have said to me, because you wrote it in dark red in all over my skin and this type of ink doesn’t wash away with “I’m sorry”, it’ll only wash away with time, and even then, it will leave a faint scar.” I don’t know who said it, but hell, I wish I did.

I’d thank them for accurately describing how my life is right now.

School started the third Monday in August.

So, here’s how Thorten High worked. All talk, no filter. People said what they thought. So, as I walked down the halls, all I heard was, “freak” “Loser” “Attention whore” “slut.” Then, when I opened my locker and people saw my one picture of Caleb and the stacks and stacks of CDs, I heard, “Freak” “Slut” “Stalker” “Junkie” “What the hell is with that picture of that guy?!”

And that, sums up my life at this moment.

“Go ahead, pass me in the halls and pretend I don’t exist. Call me broken. I hope it hurts.” Unknown.

. . .

“Mom, I don’t think the depression medicine is working.” I said to a picture of my mom on my nightstand. “I also don’t think that it’s healthy that you’re gone every night drinking. But what do I know?”

I stared at the picture of my mom. She was smiling, in a better time than now. I put the picture face down on the nightstand.

I walked into the bathroom and cut my stomach.

I felt better. I’ll be back here, in front of my bathroom mirror, cutting my stomach or arm or leg again. I’d hear all those words again tomorrow. I’d do this all again tomorrow. I’d take the anti-depression pill tomorrow morning after I ate breakfast—if I ate breakfast—I’d go to school in jeans and a jacket and everyone would stare because I can’t wear shorts. I’d hear the whispers as I passed people in the hall. I’d ignore them but keep tally.

Then, I’d come home just as Signe or Tristan would call me just to call me nasty words. And I’d keep tally.

Then I’d eat dinner and think of my mom, drunk at some random bar of the week.

Then, I’d shower, get into PJs and write down all those tallies on my body with a blade. I’d cover up the tallies and go to sleep.

I’d never get to enough tallies to hurt. Never loose enough blood to die. Although I’d wish.

When I woke up the last Sunday in August, I was completely and hopelessly depressed. The medicine didn’t work anymore. The cutting had no more effect on me. I had heard every name in the book and all I wanted was Caleb.

But the only way I could get Caleb was to off myself or wait for someone to do it for me.

I went out that Sunday and I just wandered around. Once I got home that night I listened to all the songs on Caleb’s list and read what he wrote to me. Then, I opened up a blank Word document and typed.