The next Friday morning, Alex wakes up, and checks his wrist.His shirt's sleeve soaked through.
'Fuck.' He cursed himself.
He threw the shirt under the bed where a few other shirts with the same misfortune were now lying. He had to wash them when he got a chance, but, until then, he had to wash his hand and arm off. They too had a light coating of blood on them.
He was so dizzy the previous night, he had just enough time to lock his door and fall over onto his bed. He hadn't meant for it to go that deep, but he didn't exactly do anything to stop it. He had half hoped he would bleed out, but he knew, somewhere deep down, that he wouldn't.
He ran his arm under the sink, and slightly recoiled at the water stinging his wrist. He had to scrub the blood off with soapy water and a washcloth. Once it was clean, he decided the cuts weren't deep enough to need gauze, so he should pulled on a clean t-shirt, and a button down plaid shirt. He put his jeans on, and stared at himself in the mirror. There was no outward sign of the events of last night.
He knew his parents were gone, so he walked into the only place he could find solace, his sister's bedroom. He sat cross legged in the middle of the room. He took in her scent, the posters on her walls, the pictures still sitting on her dresser. The clothes in her closet. The irrelevant knick-knacks on shelves he put up for her. He took out one of her shirts, and held it up to his face. Her smell comforted him.
He took the shirt away, and reevaluated her room. All of the picture frames and knick-knacks had a thin layer of dust covering them. The posters were curling down. And the ceiling fan was gone. He folded the shirt back up, and replaced it in her dresser. He somberly crossed the room, and closed the door behind him. He had to get to school and talk to someone. Anyone.
The first person he came across, approached him. It was Trent.
"We need to talk." Trent said, and led him towards the back of the school.
"What?" Alex asked, a scent of worry in his tone.
Trent checked to make sure the place was completely empty before saying, "Lift your sleeves."
Alex's face paled, "Why?"
"You know exactly why. Just do it."
Alex complied, and Trent examined his wrist carefully and thoughtfully.
"Why didn't you dress it?" Trent asked.
"Didn't need it." Alex pretended to be cool.
"Yes. It does. A simple flick of your wrist would open it up again." Trent rummaged around in his bag for a moment, an grabbed a first aid kit.
"How long have you known?" Alex asked, holding his wrist out as Trent cleaned and dressed it.
"Since the first day. You kept holding the ends of your sleeves and I guessed. I saw your wrist Monday when you raised your hand." Trent said.
"Why do you care?" Alex asked after Trent was done.
"Why shouldn't I care?" Trent replied.
"You don't know me."
"I know more about you, then you'd think, Alex." "Like what?" He asked.
"This is not the time to ask. I won't tell anyone. You're going to be late to class." And with that, Trent left.
Alex spent the rest of the day worrying about who Trent was planning on telling. It wasn't in his nature to just keep a secret without a motive. What else did he know? What else could he possibly know just by observing?
