Sketches and Scars

| sketch nine |

I’m sitting on my bed when he appears in my doorway. I don’t move, watching quietly as he steps towards me carefully. He settles himself at the edge of my bed, staring at his hands. We sit there in silence for a moment, not sure what to say. I don’t want to scare him off again, and I know the only way I won’t do that is if he talks to me voluntarily. So I wait.

“Sorry.”

He says it so quietly I thought I imagined it. But then he lifts his head to look at me, grey eyes swimming with an urgency I can’t read. “I didn't mean to slam the door in your face.” His fingers dig into his skin as he shifts nervously.

I look at him. “It’s okay, Tallan. But...” I wait until he raises his eyes again. “Those... bruises and scars... Do you, um... want to talk about it?”

He’s shaking his head before I even finish. “It’s in the past and I’d like to leave it there,” he whispers.

I bite my lip, stopping myself from protesting. I just can’t let it rest though. But I try. I stare at my lap, not sure what to do.

He sighs, straightening. “Jade, I... cut. Sometimes.” He shuts up, waiting for my reaction. This is dangerous and foreign territory for the both of us. Something deep down in the dark corners of himself.

“I know,” I say softly.

“It’s stupid but I...” He swallows, fingers pinching his own skin. “The pain is just... it’s easier than everything else and I can’t stop and I don’t know why but it’s more real than----than anything else and it keeps me---it keeps me sane, it keeps me here, you know?” He takes a shaky breath, starting to get worked up.

“Hey, shh...” I reach out a hand cautiously. “It’s your way of escaping, right?” I frown. That’s the saddest bullshit I’ve ever heard.

“Look. Look!” He pulls up the too-long sleeves of his borrowed shirt and sticks his pale scarred arms in my face. “It’s ugly. I’m ugly. Stupid. Freaky.”

I open my mouth to object, but I can’t lie to him. It is ugly to look at, the criss-crossing uneven lines running the length of his skinny arm. His skin is covered with the puckered scars, some healing and some pink from recent openings. Looking at it makes me feel nauseous, but I see the expression in his eyes: the self-loathing and self-disgust, defiantly waiting for me to say his own burning thoughts out loud.

I’m ugly and I deserve nothing more.

“You’re wrong,” I whisper. Gently, I take his arm and run my hands lightly over every single one of his scars, never taking my eyes off his. “You’re not ugly. You don’t deserve this, any of the----the crap you’ve been dealt. You’re more than this, Tallan, I know and----” He sucks in a breath when I lift a hand towards his face. But he doesn’t flinch. I trace the scar on his left eyebrow. “You don’t have to hurt yourself like this anymore, okay? You’re not alone anymore.”

His expression doesn’t change, and the suspicious panic in his grey eyes doesn’t fade. But he squeezes my hand, and I know he’s listening. He’s starting to listen, and maybe, just maybe, starting to believe what I’m telling him might be true.

When I come back in after my shower, he’s already passed out on my bed.

I sit on the edge of the bed, watching his face, mostly covered by his hair. I brush his hair back. He doesn’t stir. Smiling softly to myself, I settle down next to him, pulling the covers over us both. I close my eyes, letting the tiredness of the day wash over me.

He turns suddenly, and my eyes open. He grabs me, pressing himself against me with a strange sense of urgency and need.

“Tallan?”