You Can't Break Her

Chapter fifteen: part one | March

March 2005
Bayhollow, Ontario

Annie and I had a few friends who were of age to purchase alcohol. Everyone would pool their money to get as much alcohol as possible.

The bush parties we had were as low-key as it got for a group of high school students. This particular night had gotten a little out of hand when students were invited from three different high schools. But we still made it work and had a good time.

Someone yelled, "Cops!"

I ran next to Joseph as he shouted, "Duck! You'll be seen if you're standing up."

I bent over at the waste and whined, "I am ducking. This is as far as I can go!" That's when gravity did its thing, and cinnamon whiskey rushed out of my nose like a waterfall.

It turned out to be a person walking their dogs. We returned to the fire where our tents were in a circle around the pit, and we continued where we left off.

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A few days later, Annie, Joseph, and I returned to that spot. We walked through the bushes instead of taking the obvious trails. I saw a couple of beer bottles, and I smacked one on a tree until it shattered. I picked up pieces from the debris and used the sharp edges to cut the palm of my hand.

I cut just deep enough that it wouldn't be obvious but beads of crimson breached my flesh. It didn't hurt, and that intrigued me. It was less of an act of self-harm, more of a test to see what I could take. Or so I had convinced myself.

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Later that week, I went to meet with a friend at their locker. A girl had dropped her concealer and left the shattered bottle for the janitor to find. Between the shards of glass was a pink-beige liquid smeared across the floor in front of the lockers.

I used a piece of broken glass from the floor to continue the marks I had started with the beer bottle. Because it still felt better than feeling nothing at all.