Saturday. A weary, rainy, Saturday afternoon. It's been a week since we closed the case on Theodore. I'm mindlessly flipping through the channels on the telly, laying on the couch. A random book is laying open beside me. I can't focus on anything. Betsy is curled up on a chair with her laptop on her lap.
She hates me. And I get that. I understand. What I made her do was horrible. But the Inspector wouldn't have believed me. She needed to do that. But now she hates me.
We haven't talked much since Monday. I think that she's been avoiding me...understandable...as I've also started hiding things that she could hurt herself with. I don't want her to do anything stupid.
“I...I don't actually hate you,” she randomly confesses. “I...I didn't mean it when I said it.”
“You don't?” She is lying. She has to be. What I did was unforgivable.
She shakes her head. “I didn't mean it when I said it. I...I was just upset. I really do like you.”
“I don't blame you for being cross with me. I guess I'm used to it by now. People not liking me and everything,” I say
“Is it...is it because of...” She pauses. I know what she's going to ask. “The abuse?” She finally manages to get out. I knew it. But I'm still surprised.
“You honestly want to know?” I ask. I can't believe she does. It's not pretty.
“Yeah. But you don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”
I smile sadly. “No. You told me about your self-harm. I should probably return the favor.”
“You don't have to.”
I pause for a long while. I take a deep breath and manage to get out, “I'm from Presteign, Powys.”
“The border of Wales, right?” she clarifies.
I nod. “My dad...” Bitterness fills my mouth when I say the word. “He physically abused my mom and me.”
“Take as long as you need.”
I smile weakly. “When I was six, my mom died. I...I remember walking into her room one day. My dad had just hit me really hard and I wanted her to calm me down, but when I went in their room she wasn't breathing. I remember seeing a bottle of pills on her nightstand. She killed herself.”
“I'm so sorry. That's horrible.” I hate it when people tell me they're sorry. I hate it. If it's not your fault, why apologize?
I blink back tears. I don't cry. Never. Betsy doesn't push me any farther. Maybe she really cares. A while later, I continue. “My dad blamed me for her suicide. He hit me so hard after that happened. When I was twelve, he died. Thankfully. When he died...I was happy, but yet, I wasn't. You know how you love someone, but you hate them at the same time?” The emotions hit me. They are still confusing. I still don’t know what to think about that incident.
“Yes. I do,” she whispers
Crap. I forgot about Theodore.
“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. I didn't think that through.”
“It's okay,” she says, her voice cracking.
I pause, but then push forward. “I was put into foster care, but the longest anyone kept me was nine weeks. I carved all of their names on my leg. They only wanted me for the money that they got from the government. I never really had any friends when I was younger. It was really just Dominique. My dad...when he abused me...he used to make me go to my room for days on end and I couldn't eat anything. He always told me that I was fat and worthless and ugly.”
“You're not.”
“Yeah, I am. Anyways, I hurt myself. Like you. Cutting and stuff like that. I still struggle with it. Like you. When I was fifteen, I attempted suicide. I wanted to be with my mommy again and I didn't want to be here anymore. I wanted to go like her, too, so I took too many pills. It didn't work. I tried a couple other times, too, but it didn't work.”
She looks at me in disbelief. She opens her mouth to say something, but I interrupt. “Don't ask. So, that's me.” I sigh. “You probably don't want to room with me now, do you?” I don't see why she would want to continue being my flatmate.
“Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?”
Many reasons. I didn't tell her everything. “What about you? What were you like when you were younger?” I look at her. She shifts uncomfortably, deciding what to tell me.
“I grew up at 59 Holland Park. It's a really nice area in western central London, if you didn't know. It's a really fashionable area, which stinks. Because do I look like the fashionable type?” I nod. “That was rhetorical. Anyways.” She sighs. She doesn't want to tell me any of this, that much is obvious. “We were a picture-perfect family. Father and mother and two daughters.”
“Is your sister older or younger?”
“She's older. By about eighteen months. Katie's going to school to become a lawyer. She's thinking about becoming a barrister. Anyways, I was bullied in year six and year seven of school. I was told that I sucked and wasn't good enough. I was constantly told that I was a teacher's pet and too smart and that I'd never get a boyfriend because I wasn't good enough.”
We sit there in silence. She isn't going to tell me anything else. That's okay, though. I understand.
“I started self-hating myself back then,” she continues unexpectedly. “But I didn't start harming myself until year nine. That's when it got really bad. I didn't have that many friends who would help me. When I was fourteen, I was home alone one day after school. I took a kitchen knife and attempted suicide. The doctors said that if the housekeeper came in five minutes later, I actually would have died.” She pauses; stares at something. “I almost wish she didn't make it,” she whispers.
“I'm glad she made it,” I say. I mean it. That is horrible. I hate that she had to go through that, that she is going through it. I'm kind of going through the same thing, but I don't want anyone else to.
“My family was upset for a while that I tried to kill myself, but then they didn't care as much. They had occasionally told me that I was stupid and ugly and lazy and worthless, and that didn't help. Dominique was a friend of mine that helped a lot. We met at the park. I always went to the park when I was feeling down. I'd read there or write there or take photos there or just walk. Ride my bike. Listen to nature or music. Just be alone. One day I was reading there and something hit me in the back of the head. It was a Frisbee. She and her dad were playing with it, but the wind took a bad throw and hit me in the back of my head. We became instant friends. We met the year I attempted suicide.” She sighs. “Such is the life of mine.”
We fall into a slightly awkward silence and continue on with the rest of the day.
