The Bathtub

In the streets of this city, the night leaves early. Pigeons peck at the last remaining breadcrumbs of dinners from the night before as pretty young girls walk home with hundreds in their bras. Street performers come out in the first of the sunlight, wailing Jeff Buckley and strumming their acoustic guitars like anyone cares about their bleeding souls, like we all aren't suffering our own quiet battles in our stomachs.

In a room in a grimy, classless motel, there is a queen-sized bed with two too-skinny kids curled up in it. The stained sheets are pushed aside, baring pale skin and prominent ribcages.

Ryan, my beautiful boyfriend, has his chest against my back and his arm over my stomach, and I cling to it, anchoring him to myself in sleep. His chipped blue nails scratch against my bare tummy as he stirs my hair with quick, restless little breaths, and the movement, paired with my bladder full of tequila, draws me from my dreamless sleep.

I fumble for my cell phone to use as a flashlight to guide my way across our messy, clothes-strewn floor to the bathroom. 4:01 AM flashes at me from the display, and I stifle a groan; I've barely slept an hour.

I pull the covers back to get out of bed, and the harshness of my phone's light falls on his exposed thigh. I catch sight of the grim blemishes that haunt my darkest fears, that I have seen in variations but they still rock me back on my heels, forcing a sharp breath out of my mouth: bright red, thin, fresh razor blade slits. Four, maybe five, on his upper right leg.

It must have been today, this afternoon, that he cut himself, because the marks weren't there last night, I'm sure of it. I would have seen when we crawled sleepily onto the pillows and curled up like cats with the light still on. But tonight, when we had the heat and the headiness and the sharp smell of tequila surrounding us as we tumbled into bed, as we stripped each other under the dark cover of twelve-thirty a.m. sky through the thin shades, there's no way I would have seen the cuts. Or felt them.

I can hear my breathing, erratic and far too loud, and I run to the restroom. I stave off tears as I do my business, as I flush and wash my hands twice. The chipped blue tiles of the floor begin to blur in my eyes.

I can't go back in there with Ryan, but there's no way I'm walking to my dad's place at three in the morning. In our part of the city, there are people way worse than the dealers that take over the streets during the day, and I've had enough run-ins with some of the youngest streetwalkers to know that I don't want to run into their employers in a dark alleyway. Or a well-lit parking lot, for that matter. And I'd have to turn right back around to head to work by the time I got there anyway.

My only choice is to try and get some sleep here, but there is no way I'm going back to bed where I'll feel his skin against mine and be unable to think of anything but the fresh wounds that marr it.

So I collect all the threadbare, worn-soft towels from the rack and pile them in the bathtub, then lay there on my side, knees to my chest in this little homemade cocoon. I stare at the organic shampoos lining the edges of the tub and cry until everything is black.

When I wake up, my mouth tasting like cotton, he's gone and I find relief strong in my bones, followed quickly by disgust with myself. The love of my life is literally slitting open his lovely pale skin, and I'm just glad that I don't have to confront him about it. I spare a moment to reflect sadly on what a deplorable girlfriend I am before lifting myself from the cool comfort of the tub. With stiff, aching joints, I pop a few Tylenol for the hangover and start to get ready for my day.

I originally applied for my job at Nell's Used Book Shop out on the pier because it was genuinely one of my favorite places. I loved the ancient wood beams and exposed pipes around the tops of the walls, the thatched roof and skylights that rain came down on, and the cozy old Goodwill couches that Nell had placed years ago. I loved that he arranged his books neatly on shelves following a complex, multi-step alphabetical system within genres, stacked spine-to-spine on the shelves with just as much dignity as the bookstore in the mall downtown. Most of all, I loved that it was a time-worn bright patch of colour against the gray of the Pacific all year. I still love all those things about the shop, but now spending hour upon hour there pays the rent.