Examine

nine

MICHAEL

Ten years earlier

"Isla don't walk away from me just because you don't want to hear what I want to say," I tell her retreating back. "Have you talked to an academic advisor?"

Isla turns around. "No, Michael." Fury is burning in her eyes, and she looks like she wants to slap me.

"You're failing medicine, you can't ignore your studies anymore."

"I know! I've seen my tests come in, I may be stupid but I'm not blind," her words are scathing and focused inward.

I step toward her, my arms outstretched. "You're not stupid Isla."

She crosses her arms across her chest, taking a step back, out of reach. "Yeah, well, I'm not you Michael. Everything doesn't come easily to me, I don't study because I want to. Chemistry doesn't immediately make sense to me."

"Chemistry doesn't come easily to me, I just work at it."

Isla raises her hands in frustration. "See this is what I mean, you don't get it! I'm. Not. Like. You. What about that don't you get?"

"Are you angry at me Isla?" I ask, confused.

"Yes. No." She answers. Her shoulders hunch inward, and she suddenly looks smaller, lost. I step forward and draw her into my arms. This time she doesn't resist me, pressing her face into my chest.

"I can't be perfect like you," she tells me, her words are muffled in my sweater.

I chuckle hoarsely. "I'm not perfect." I grow sombre. "But if you feel like you're failing and not enjoying medicine, maybe you can switch degrees? I won't judge you, I promise. I just want you to be happy."

Isla tilts her face up to look into my eyes, and I brush a few strands of blonde hair from her face.

"My parents will kill me if I drop out of med. You know that," she responds despondently.

"You don't have to live your life based on what your parents want."

Isla rolls her eyes, withdrawing again. "Easy for you to say. Everything is going right in your life, and you're pleasing your parents."

I scratch the back of my neck, unsure where to go from here. "I think talking to an academic advisor about your degree would still be beneficial –"

Isla interrupts me. "Can you stop Michael? You're my boyfriend. I don't want or need you to micromanage my life. Stop trying to control me!"

"Okay," I say, backing off. I've clearly read this situation wrong. This feels like Isla and I's first big fight. "I'm sorry."

There's an awkward lull between us as Isla stares at the ground, refusing to meet my gaze.

"I'll go hang with Jason for a bit. I'm sorry for trying to control you." I move to leave her room, but Isla walks forward, reaching out to touch my arm.

"No, I'm sorry. Please don't go, Michael."

I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. "No... I think you've made yourself very clear just now. I think we need space."

"Are you leaving me?" Isla asks, her eyes growing wide. Her voice accusing.

"What? No," I answer quickly. "Just a bit of a breather for tonight."

Isla looks like she's about to cry. "No, Michael. Please don't. I don't want space. I need you."

"I need you too," I reassure her, surprised by the intensity and change in her emotion. "It's not you, you're right, I shouldn't be interfering in your life. I think I need to talk to someone else just to get some perspective. We've been spending all our days together..."

"Yeah, but don't you like it like that? I love hanging out with just you. It's perfect when it's just us."

I frown. "I just can't help wondering if you'd be doing better in your studies if I wasn't taking up all your time."

There's silence.

Isla stares at me with her big blue eyes.

"Is that what you think of me?" she asks hoarsely. "That I'm just taking up too much of your time and you're doing worse in your studies because of it? It is, isn't it? You don't have to say it, Michael, I can see it on your face."

"No, Isla," I say slowly, unconvincingly.

Isla breaks away to go to her bathroom, a silent storm. She slams the door shut behind her.

I don't feel good leaving her like this and I stand still for a moment. Conflicted. I want to leave, I think a bit of space to clear my head would be good. But I don't want Isla to think she isn't important to me.

I walk toward the bathroom. I knock on the door. "Isla, can you please open up?"

I can hear sharp breathing on the other side. Little stabs of breath like she's trying to keep her cries contained. I hear a low moan of pain. And something drops inside my stomach.

I try to open the door, but I find it locked.

"Isla," I say, injecting a bit more authority in my voice. "Please unlock the door."

"Just go away Michael," she returns, anger lining her voice. "Go like you wanted to do before. Leave me."

It feels like she's goading me.

"I don't want to go," I tell her, resting my head against the door. "I just want to see you. Can you please open the door?"

She's still breathing hard. Unnaturally so.

There's a click. The door unlocking. But she doesn't open it.

I'm already sliding the door back, revealing Isla pressed into the sink, leaning over the basin.

At first, I think there's nothing wrong, just relieved to see her face. But the expression of shame on her face is one I've never seen before, she turns her face away and glances down.

It's then I notice the discarded razor blade in the sink. The blood streaming into the drain. The straight cuts on her arm. There are fresh ones, but there are also faint lines that echo past hurt.

"Isla," I say, my voice breaking on her name. I don't know what to do in this situation. I feel unprepared. I feel guilty like I drove her to this point.

Isla's eyes are brimming with tears. "I'm not perfect like you Michael."

I step forward and immediately crush her in my arms. I'm hushing her for no apparent reason, drawing her out of the bathroom, away from the evidence of her self-inflicted wounds. "It's okay," I hear myself repeating to her over and over again.

But it's not okay. She's not okay. And I don't know what to do.

She's crying, her head burrowed into my chest, her arms clutching at me as if at any moment I'm going to step away and leave her.

When her sobs subside, I pull away to look her in the eyes. "Are you suicidal?" I ask. This is all I remember from learning about self-harm.

Isla shakes her head, her lower lip trembling. The neat lines on her arms are already sealing, and I want to slap myself for not seeing them before. How long had this been happening? How could I be so ignorant? When I'd seen those faint lines, she'd told me that one of her friend's dogs had scratched her.

"Isla, I'm worried about you. Your safety is the most important thing to me."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she mutters. "I promise I won't do it again."

I want to accept her word, but I can't be alone in this. "Have you thought about talking to someone else about this? There's counselling on campus and a psychology clinic."

Isla is already shaking her head, resistant to the idea.

"Please Isla," I say, my throat dry. "I need you to see someone. I can't deal with this alone and I need to know you're safe."

"Okay," she murmurs at last. "I'll see someone."

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