Scarred

Chapter 18

As August approached, I felt more and more uncomfortable in my long sleeved shirts that I'd been wearing. I had started cutting last October, when the weather was cooler and wearing long sleeves to cover up the scars weren't a bother to me. But as the hottest month of the year arrived, I couldn't stand the heat anymore.

My first day wearing a short sleeved shirt was weird. Even Lee Anne, who hasn't known me very long, noticed the difference. "She has arms!" Lee Anne exclaimed when I walked into the kitchen that morning. I laughed and sat down for breakfast. I kept my wrists and arms out of view so that they couldn't see the scars that covered them. But it was odd to see the jagged lines all day. Normally, I only glimpsed them when I went to add another one to my collection. But now, they were on full display, twenty-four/seven.

Lee Anne took me to go get enrolled for school on Tuesday, August eighth. We waited forever in line, but I finally got my schedule for the upcoming year. "Let's see," I said, gazing at the schedule in my hand as we drove home. "American History is first period, then Creative Writing, then College Algebra, Spanish IV, AP Chemistry, English Language Arts IV, and Advanced Swimming."

"Wow," Lee Anne said in awe. "You're really smart."

"And why is that a surprise?" I retorted.

"Just because you were abandoned and all, left to live on your own," Lee Anne defended.

"Look," I said, "I may have had it rough, but I still got a public education. I'm not stupid just because I come from a broken household."

"Of course," Lee Anne, shutting her mouth. "Of course."

***

When the first day of school arrived on August sixteenth, I was excited to see that Sam was in my first period class.

"Back at school, eh?" Sam asked. "Sucks, right?"

"I kind of like it," I replied. "My parents never got to educate me, so this is all I have."

"Yeah, but it's so much work," Sam groaned.

"You should be used to working for things," I laughed.

"Everyone shut up!" the teacher yelled as she stormed into class. I quickly shut my mouth and turned to the front of the class. "My name is Mrs. Vasquez, and I am your American History teacher. Choose your seats wisely; once you've chosen, you're stuck with that seat for the rest of the year." She left the class alone for a minute while we changed seats. Sam moved from thw desk behind me to the desk next to me. He explained that it was to make it easier to talk to him.

"Everybody got their seats?" Mrs. Vasquez asked. Without waiting for an answer, she continued. "Good. Today, we are going over rules and regulations. I know it's boring, and you all know this stuff, but it's required. So here goes..." Her voice trailed off in my head as I shut her out. My eyes were fixed on the visible scar on my arms. I still wasn't used to having my arms show, and neither were the students in my grade level. Many people looked at me oddly, probably wondering why I suddenly decided on a wardrobe change.

Sam leaned over to talk to me. "I like the new short sleeve shirts," he whispered. "They're cute."

"Samuel Johnson!" Mrs. Vasquez yelled. "Don't make me send you to the principal's office on the first day of school." Sam leaned back in his chair, his face flushing tomato red. I grinned and moved my eyes back to Mrs. Vasquez for the rest of the period.

***

The bell rang loudly, excusing everyone from their first period. Sam and I walked out together, both of holding onto the straps of our backpacks to keep them from falling off the one shoulder they had support from. Sam still stared at my bare arms.

"Got a problem?" I asked, turning the scars away from Sam to hide them.

"No," Sam replied honestly. "I'm just not used to your bare arms."

"Shut up," I scowled. "It's not that big of a deal." Sam smiled and averted his eyes from my arm. But as he did, I made the mistake of turning my arm towards him. He caught a glimpse of a healing scar on the edge of my arm.

"What's that?" Sam asked, worried.

"Nothing," I said, pulling my arm away from his grasp. But he caught a hold of it anyways, and suddenly all of my scars were there for him to openly view. I ducked my head to keep him from seeing my tears.

"Quinn, are you cutting yourself?" Sam asked. I didn't reply. He dropped my arm. "Quinn, please answer me. I want to understand."

"You just won't, okay?" I retaliated. I wiped away one of my tears. "Yes, I cut. Yes, I'm depressed. No, I wouldn't kill myself. But there's nothing to worry about."

"Cutting yourself can be fatal," Sam argued. "I think that's something to worry about."

"I'm fine," I said. "I've been cutting since October. Nothing's happened yet, and nothing will." Little did I know that remark could've sealed my fate.

"Just please promise me you won't do it again," Sam pleaded. "I can't stand to see you get hurt."

I sighed. "Okay," I lied, "I won't do it anymore." Sam sighed in relief and hugged me. "Now, you've got to get to second period." I watched as Sam dashed away. I let one of my fingers trail up a scar on my arm. I couldn't stop cutting myself. I was too addicted to it.

If only I could find a way to stop it.