Bruises | l.mh

01

//yena

THE WATER RUNS COLD against my forearm.

I scrub a bar of soap against my forearm, watching the crimson red color mix with the white, bubbly soap.

The sounds of the water running out of the faucet and my desperate scrubbing against my skin ring and echo throughout the bathroom.

I scrub a little higher on my forearm and see a blue color begin to mix in with the red.

The marker scribbles fade away as I run the white soap over my arm. Bubbles are formed and then washed away by the water.

Once I've got all the color off my arm, all that's left is the redness from scrubbing my arm so much.

I quickly dry it off and pull my long, black sleeve down to my hand.

I put the towel back on the towel hanger and leave the bathroom, going down the short hallway to my bedroom.

Quickly, I close the door and sit on top of my bed, pulling my notebook and pencil off my nightstand.

I flip through pages filled with graphite letters until I reach a blank page in the notebook. Without thinking much, I move the pencil across the paper, creating new words. I'm not really sure what I'm writing, just sentences that come to my mind about nature and the sunlight and leaves in the autumn. I like the feel of my pencil gliding across the smooth notebook page, turning the white dark with graphite.

Through the walls of the house, I can hear the front door opening, the familiar creak groaning through the house. The sound makes its way all the way to my bedroom and my pencil stops moving, pressed against the paper.

I glance over at my desk and see my computer sitting there, next to my unfinished homework. I was supposed to be writing a paper and doing some research for history, but I haven't done either of those things. Instead, I've been writing. In my notebook and on my skin.

The front door closes and I can hear muffled voices, but I can't tell what they're saying.

I hear the rustling of bags and footsteps. Those two sounds are separate. The footsteps are heavy and moving closer to my room.

There's a light knock on my door before it slowly swings inward, revealing a face. The face looks kind, slight wrinkles around the dark hazel eyes and straight-lined lips.

"Hello Yena," Ji-sub greets.

Yoo Ji-sub is my mother's boyfriend. He's been seeing my mom for about five years now.

Ji-sub takes a step into my room, folding his hands politely in front of him. "We made it home from the store and we picked up some noodles for dinner. Have you done any of your homework?"

"Yeah," I lie.

Ji-sub gives me a sympathetic smile. "Okay, that's good. You can come and get your noodles if you want. We're just gonna watch TV, I presume."

"Okay, thanks," I respond quickly.

Without another word, Ji-sub leaves my room, leaving the door cracked open.

I let out a sigh as I get up and shut my door.

I go back to my bed and look down at the words on my notebook page. It's starting to shape into a story about a girl walking through the woods in the autumn.

My pencil is lying next to the notebook now, but I don't want to pick it up. I don't feel like I can pick it up. I don't have any inspiration to write anymore.

Maybe I should do my homework. It's due tomorrow, anyway, and I'll probably get in trouble if I don't do it. But I don't feel like doing my homework, either. I don't feel like being here.