I wake up. It's time to go to the morgue. Why did I offer to go in the first place? I want to sleep in. I didn't get much last night. I quickly get dressed and put on some makeup, very minimal. I don't have much time.
I meet Betsy in the living room and we put on our coats and shoes, and head out. We stop first at the cafe across the street and buy a croissant to share. As we start walking, I keep thinking about Betsy's scars. What story does each one hold?
I take a deep breath and ask, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you do it?
“Do what?”
“Why do you cut yourself?” I ask.
“It's not just cutting,” she snaps angrily.
My eyes widen. There's more? “Why? I mean, you've got everything you could want.”
“A, I don't want to talk about it. B, stop acting like you care.”
She thinks I don't care? I do! I don't know her very well, but I want to. It's been a while since I've been able to call anyone 'friend.' I want Betsy to be my friend. Ugh, that sounds childish. “I do care. I want to know about you,” I tell her. I mean it.
She hesitates. “You'd....you'd tell someone.”
I shake my head. She's unbelievable! But then again, would I answer questions she might ask about my abuse? “I wouldn't dare. I'm not that type.”
We walk a block in silence. Then she says quietly, “But, I like you. And I don't want you to not be my flatmate anymore.”
“Oh, honey.” I stop and look at her. Her cheeks flush a little. “I would never do that, up and leave you. No.”
She looks down and a way for a minute, then finally gets the courage to start. “I...I suffer from severe depression. And the only way I....I can cope with it is by hurting myself. Cutting, burning...”
“You burn yourself?” I ask quietly. “Do you...do you have any burn marks?” Am I crazy? She wouldn't want to show me of all people.
She slowly rolls up the sleeve on her left arm. A medium-sized burn mark is on the top of her arm. “Please don't touch it,” she whispers. “It still hurts.”
“But why?” I ask. I don't get it. I honestly don't.
“I don't like myself,” she states, very straight-forward.
“Why? You've got friends. Family. Looks. Intelligence. A good flat. Great style.”
“Yeah. Two friends—you and Theodore. My family and I don't get on well. I'm not pretty, and definitely not as pretty as you.” I look at her, up and down. I disagree with that last statement. “I'm not that smart—Theodore is smarter. Yeah, the flat's nice. And I'm not that stylish.” I look at her. She's wearing is a long-sleeved, light blue plaid shirt, dark skinny jeans, and Converse. I think it's very stylish. I like it.
Me, on the other hand, feel horrible and ugly. After being told that I'm worthless, fat, and ugly my entire life seriously screwed up my self image and esteem. I'm wearing simple jean trousers, a white t-shirt, my Bear Claw boots, and a multicolored knitted hat from Claire’s. My hair is just brushed, nothing special done to it, and my makeup is sloppy. Betsy is beautiful, and I'm just...me.
“No, I'm serious. You've got everything working for you. I'm sure people are jealous of you.”
“Yeah, the people who bullied me and teased me are totally jealous. Get real.” She says.
