Things got worse.
My friends have picked up a habit of poking fun at the way I fidget with my hands whenever I’m restless; it’s been going on for at least a month or so, but it only recently started bugging me. I’ve tried brushing it off, laughing along—it works. It just doesn’t extinguish the burn in my stomach, but seeing as it’s just a little thing, I ignore it like I usually do. It isn’t as if my friends would care that such a tiny little thing bugs me. I’ve always been the crybaby; it’s time to grow up and face the music.
From there it just snowballed. First my hand-twitching tendency began progressing, and then I developed a habit of scratching at my arm, which soon turned into the private practice of scratching myself until the skin took on a morbid rosy hue. A week or two into this, I felt myself wearing down and spending more and more time alone; I couldn’t deal with people at the time. It didn’t help that my friends had invited me to an upcoming party that I really didn’t want to go to, but I couldn’t decline. I can never say no to people whose smiles are real.
To put the icing on the cake, Tryss showed up. He caught me in the park waiting for my ride home from an after-school pep rally and dropped down next to me, asking lightly, “How do you like my book so far?”
“I haven’t started it yet,” I replied flatly. “I mean, I’ve opened it, but I haven’t read it.”
“That’s a shame,” he chimed.
“Could you go away?”
“Why? You looked lonely sitting over here all by yourself.”
“I’m not—” I cut myself off and sighed, dropping my head to rest in my palm. “Talking to you wears me out. I need my energy for this weekend.”
“What’s this weekend?”
“I’m going to a party at a friend’s house,” I muttered.
“You don’t sound too happy about that.”
“Yeah, well…” I paused. Trystain’s skin and hair was slightly paler than usual, and the bright blueness of his eyes was rimmed with a color that would soon be recognizable as red. I frowned at him and inched away. “You’re here to bite me, aren’t you?”
“Mm, not today. Maybe later this week,” he decided, scooting over to cover the distance I’d just put between us. “You haven’t touched Mr. Razor in a while, have you?”
“How is that your business?” I snapped.
“If Mr. Razor gets blood from you, that’s less for me.”
“I told you, Trystain, I don’t actually cut,” I practically spat at him, rising to my feet. “So my little blood supply is all yours. Are you happy?”
I started to march away, but he caught me by the arm and I turned my head to glare into the eyes that would be smiling until Armageddon.
“Just keep it in your drawer,” he told me calmly, and he let me go.
Later, as I sat alone in my room, reluctantly getting a few things together for the party (purse, water bottle, cell phone), I glanced out the window at the early evening sky. The clouds were sparse but it still had a dull, tired color. I wondered idly what Kat was doing, but I didn’t really want to see her right now. I started to wonder what someone else was doing but stopped before his smug grin could take over my mind, turning back to preparing for a party I wished I didn’t have to attend. Pausing to check over the contents of my purse, I scanned my room for anything else that I might need; my gaze lingered on the drawer that contained my razor. The silence of the room suddenly deepened.
