Not Like Last Time

Chapter 13

We sat on my bed for a bit, in silence. Sam occasionally rubbed my back. "You okay now?" He murmured, folding his hands in his lap.

"Yeah. Thanks." I whispered. "Sorry for–"

"Don't say sorry. You don't have anything to be sorry for." He said, standing up. He opened my window and I watched as he jumped down and walked to the road where he'd parked the car before closing my curtains again.

I felt better now. Talking to Sam was easy, comforting, even. I felt bad because he'd always had a crush on Cassie, so this must be hurting him too. It must be tearing him apart somehow. He's just better at managing it than me.

I took a deep breath and went downstairs. Mom was working a late shift so she wouldn't be home until the next morning. I made myself some ramen and sat in the living room.

When I finished, I washed the dishes and found the lid of a can. Before I had the little pieces of glass I used to cut myself, I would use the lids of washed cans.

I ran my thumb over the edge, light enough to feel something but not enough to cut. I held onto it for a moment longer before setting it down. I finished washing the dishes and went upstairs and showered.

For the first time in a while, I looked in my reflection. I looked like shit. My face was pale and sunken, and my eyes looked exhausted. My hair was too long, it went down to my butt, and the scars on my legs were red and bumpy.

I pulled out my phone, and after watching a few Youtube tutorials, I did something everyone has done at least once; I cut my own hair. I cut it up to my shoulders and gave myself bangs. They didn't look exactly like the tutorial did, but it didn't look necessarily bad.

That's when I made up my mind. I was going to change until I was almost unrecognizable. So I could forget everything. Become a new person. I grinned at myself in the mirror. I dug through the mirror cabinet until I found my old makeup and skincare products. I would bury everything old in a six foot grave.

The next morning I got up earlier and put on a bit of makeup. Mascara, lip gloss, and I dabbed foundation on my scars to cover them up. I comfortably wore a T Shirt for the first time in a long time. I smiled at myself again. I could build myself back up from the bottom. I did my hair in a half-up half-down style.

I got to work in time and forced myself to be confident as I walked in. Jake saw me and grinned. "Someone's feeling better." He teased, walking up to me.

"I guess." I shrugged but smiled.

"I gotta say, you look good in T-shirts, girl."

I felt heat rise to my cheeks and turned away, hoping he wouldn't see. "Do you want me to start making burritos this morning again? You know, since I missed out on it yesterday?"

"Sure. And hey, sorry about yesterday again."

"It's okay." I said, heading to the kitchen. I turned on the stovetop and started making them. One after the other until Jake traded places with me so I could take orders.

It was a much easier work day than yesterday, and a kid even complimented me on my hair, but then told me my T-shirt looked weird. I just smiled at the kid as the mom ushered him away, apologizing.

I helped close up again, because JJ was still sick. I was wiping down the tables, hoping Jake wouldn't ask the question I knew he would.

"So...Why'd you end up in the mental hospital? I mean, I've got a few ideas, and you don't have to answer, but–"

"It's fine. I ended up there twice, actually. Once when I was 14 because I'd started self-harming and burning myself. They tried to get me in check before anything really bad happened." I paused, grabbing another cloth. "Then when I was 15 I accidentally almost killed myself, so I was sent back. I got out a few days ago."

"Oh. Is that why you were wearing long sleeved shirts? To cover the scars up?"

I nodded. "I'm only wearing a T-shirt because I covered them up with makeup." I grabbed a cloth before I could change my mind and swiped it over the makeup on my arms until my scars were visible.

Jake grabbed my arm gently and lifted it up. "Do they hurt?"

"No, not really. Sometimes if I, like, itch them or something." I shrugged.

He let go of my arm. "I'm–" I could hear the 'S' on the tip of his tongue so I cut him off.

"Don't. I don't need to hear 'I'm sorry.'" It came out sharper than intended so I quickly added, "I've heard it enough." I turned away to finish cleaning up. It was quiet until I went out to grab my bike.

"Don't cover them up tomorrow." I stopped and opened my mouth to say something, but he kept talking. "If you don't want anyone's 'I'm sorry' then stop acting like it's something to hide."

I closed my mouth. He wasn't wrong, I knew he wasn't. My excuse for hiding them, even when I was younger, the excuse was always, 'I don't want people to look at them.' But the real reason was that I didn't want to see them. I didn't want to remember them. I wasn't ready to.

But if I wasn't ready now, if I didn't push myself now then maybe I never would.

"Fine." I answered finally, getting onto my bike. I started pedaling before I could hear his response. I went up to my room, staring at the scars. There were lots.

I never realized how many there were. How much I'd done. And how little people cared.

But you hid them. A tiny voice says in my head. How can people care if they don't know?

They should've noticed.

How could they?

I gave signs.

Did you?

Yes!

Did you?

I shook my head, trying to clear it. I did give signs. Didn't I? I thought back to when I first started, when they were just small cuts. Then they grew bigger and I got more reserved. I fell into my own head.

But I acted the same. A bit quiet, but I still smiled. I still laughed. I still had friends.

Good ones? The voice asked.

I didn't answer.