Look Past the Surface

Chapter 8

After a supper that I made myself, I said goodnight to my perfect siblings and my parents and headed upstairs. I stood in the doorway, my fan the only sound as it attempted to stir the stiff air. I left the yellowing light on, and my small room was almost still around me and my pumping blood.

Finally, I stirred as I went to turn off the light, and the whole room resumed in motion. My light started to flicker and I felt the cool breeze from the fan, and I flipped the switch and changed in the dark.

When I collapsed into my thick covers, I had tears in my eyes. I was about to explode, and it was the last thing I wanted. I hated the feeling of crying. All the snot and the itchy eyes… Not my thing. I already had cried once that day, and I didn’t need to break down again.

But, there are some things in this world that you can’t avoid. And that was one of them.

So, I sat in my bed and cried that night. The silent tears made their silvery paths down my flushed face and snot dribbled from my nose, and I was probably not a pretty sight. And, as usual, no member of my family came in to check on me. And I knew that somebody heard me let loose that first heart-broken sob. After that I was quiet, but whoever heard me should have known that I would still be crying. Seriously.

The house was quiet by eleven that night, and the only noises that filled my room were my sniffles, wet and snotty and disgusting.

Disgusting.

That summed me up quite well, in my opinion. I never had the greatest self esteem in the world, but I somehow managed to hold my head up high and my middle finger higher. I was that type of girl. However, I was also the type of girl to cry into her pillow far too often than was healthy. I had been good so far that school year. That day was the first time I sobbed in a while.

But, I had returned to my bad habit a week after I quit. See, I will admit this much: everything I did was a cry for help. Every time I opened my eyes wide or fiddled with my hands, every second that I spent not speaking: I wanted someone to notice. But those little cries weren’t enough for me. I still remained unnoticed. So I transformed those cries into screams.

I crept out of my room and down the stairs. I was heading to a place I knew far too well. I stood in the middle of my kitchen, seeing my blotchy, wet face reflected in the shiny surface.

The first time I did it was in sixth grade. I was eleven. Eleven. And after three years, my screams were still unheard. But I kept doing it. It became a habit. A game.

After a while, some people asked me questions. I shook them off with a smile and a giggle, and the topic was dropped. It broke my heart that nobody pursued.

I picked up the object that showed me and let it reflect the moonlight. It was beautiful, in a way. This moment.

I smiled through the tears, and I started sawing at the delicate skin on my forearm. My smile turned to a grimace, and I kept sawing. I had never drawn blood, but this time I was desperate to. And, finally the skin broke and a tiny droplet of scarlet bubbled up. That was it, but I knew that more would come later.

Now that you know what my habit was, you must be shocked. To think that a plump eleven year old cut herself and still did it, three years later… Surely it must break your heart. Maybe it would break your heart more to know that I tried to kill myself when I was twelve, only to wake up an hour later, unsuccessful. Nobody ever found out.

I always told myself that I didn't want pity, but I knew that it was pity that I was yearning for. I wanted people to know and have an opinion on what I was doing to myself. Maybe someone would care. Maybe someone would try to help me.

Maybe someone wouldn’t take my petty excuses as an answer.

Of course, it wasn't a big deal. Everyone blew it out of proportion in the media, cutting, that is. I mean, I could barely get a drop of blood. How on earth could I slit my wrists in a suicide attempt? My one try was a stupid suffocation attempt that just knocked me out.

But doing it was still stupid, so, so stupid.

I put the knife down on the counter and stared at it, my knuckles white as they clutched the edge of the counter. My back was to the kitchen, and a cold breeze ran chills up my back. It was silent. The air was still around me, and you could literally hear a pin drop should you do so.

Or you could hear an annoying kid somehow manage to shout in a whisper.

"Regan! What the fuck are you doing?"

I felt my heart stop for a moment, but I calmly turned around to face the intruder. Cole.

He was standing in a shaft of light and he was looking at me as if I was some sort of monster.

It took a long time for it to register that I had left the knife out on the counter, and that there was a little trickle of blood running down my arm.

Cole reached across the darkness and grabbed my wrist. I winced, for he grabbed me right where my new cut was. Cole dragged me out the back door, the only one in my house that didn't scream like hell when you tried to push it open a touch. He didn't bother closing it behind him.

My arm began to seriously hurt. I actually squeaked in pain. Cole suddenly seemed to realize where he was grabbing me, and his eyes widened. He let go quickly and put his arm around me instead. I fit comfortably in the nook of his elbow. I clutched my hurt arm as he led me down to the creek. More gently, this time.

He helped me sit down on a rock and he sat beside me. We had no words, but he kept his arm around me. After a few minutes, the September chill registered and I shivered.

"Shit, I forgot." He cursed, and he didn't hesitate to ditch his jacket and pull it over my head. Being as he was still in long sleeves and jeans and I was in a tank top and short shorts, I thought that this balanced things. I tucked my knees into the sweatshirt and rested my chin on them. I looked out on the water that gleamed silver and Cole squeezed me into a half-hug.

Then he looked at me. The way he did so caused a rippling groan to echo through my brain. I knew that he was going to start the cascade of questions.

(The questions I always wanted to hear)

But, Cole was different, always shocking me, and this was no exception. Only one question came from his mouth.

"Why?" His eyes were big and they seemed dark rather than their usual light gray and the way they were gleaming... Well, to say the least, his eyes drew out what I hid from everyone else.

I tried to answer, I really did. Nothing but a broken sob pushed through my lips. I covered my mouth in shock and the tears began again, pouring in warm rivers down my face. I mentally hit myself. "I-I" I whispered, and then I said the rest into my hands. "I don't cry like this in front of people. I have to go."

I started to stand but Cole gently guided me down on the rock again. He pulled my hands away from my face and looked me in the eye. "You have nothing to cry about and you have a shoulder to cry on." He brushed a loose strand of hair away from my face, and he cupped my chin in both of his strong hands.

"You don't know..." I sobbed, and he shook his head. He gave me a little half-smile, and he caught me off guard when I saw that his eyes were dripping tears as well.

"I think I do." He whispered, and then he drew me into a hug. We cried in each other’s arms for who knows how long. The chill began to numb my legs and soon my tears felt as if they were frozen on my cheeks. Never once did Cole let me go.