Broken: Emily's Story

3

The bell rings, shaking my memories away. Numbly, I get up. Kids file out before me out the door. I follow and hurry to my next class.

A fight erupts outside of my classroom, blocking my way to class. This fight is between two boys I don't know or care about. One of them gets the upper hand and beats the crap out of the other one.

At some point a security guard comes and attempts to break them up. It works long enough to let me into my class. I don't know if they go at it again. And I don't care.

I sit in the back again. I watch students file in, talking about the fight. I don't know them, they know me, I mean who the fuck didn't see the emo-ass girl sitting in the back?

He walks into the classroom. His friend is talking his ear off, but he's not paying attention. He's looking around the room. And then he finds me and our eyes meet. He looks ready to approach me.

I say, Oh thank fucking god, when the bell rings, forcing him to sit down.

Before the teacher even says anything, I raise my hand. Startled, the teacher says, Yes-?

Emily, I say. Can I go to the bathroom? I say quickly, feeling a thousand eyes on me. I rarely spoke, especially not in school.

Of course, he says.

Gratefully, I slip out of the classroom. I place my right hand in my pocket. My hand wraps around my familiar box.

I'm practically shaking when I reach the girl's bathroom. I slip into the furthest stall and quickly close the door. I pull out the small box from my pocket. It's a simple, brown, cardboard box. But it's so much more to me.

I open the lid to reveal different sharp objects I collected over the last three months. Broken glass, the blade of a knife, a pencil sharpener blade, and a scalpel from my father's doctor kit. Back when he worked as a doctor instead of a full-time drunk. Back when things were better.

Underneath them are some gauze and rubbing alcohol. I was always bleeding. And I didn't want it to go through my clothes and alert the people around me.

Gingerly, I pick up the blade. I flip it in my hands a couple of times. Carefully, I put it back and set the box on the floor. I take my hoody and pull it over my head. I throw my hoody on the floor. I brace myself and then look at my arms.

8,000 angry red lines cover my arms and lace their way up my shoulders. I can't see them, but I know more cover my chest and legs and both of my sides. I lost count after 8,000. I didn't care.

All I know is I had just wanted to do what I am today. I just wanted to do it every day.

Cut out the memories.