A Chance to Reappear

Chapter 8

A/N: Trigger warning for self-harm for the beginning of this chapter, so proceed with caution!

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The sheets are sticky with sweat and blood when I wake up. Bright red numbers reading "3:13" watch me lay in filth and misery. The corners of my eyes are tight and crusted over. Mechanically, I push myself up, picking up the discarded scissors from the side of the bed and tearing off the sheets. No one is awake, thank God.

The laundry room light hurts my eyes. I shove the sheets into the washer without care. I don't feel anything. I just can't let anyone see the blood. Peroxide and detergent mix, probably not a good idea. I start the washer, wipe the scissors off and drop them in a pencil cup, and make my way to the bathroom.

The blood is mostly dry on my arms, but everything stings. It hurts more sitting under the scalding water of the shower, the run-off tinged pink. I can't even cry. I'm just so miserable, but I make myself move, make myself work. I wash myself, dry myself, patch my injuries, get dressed, grab new sheets. Every task feels heavy and impossible, but I make myself do it. I'm not a bitch.

Mom is standing in my bedroom.

"What did you use?" she asks.

"Scissors," I whisper.

"Where are they?"

"Laundry room."

"Come with me."

I follow her to the living room, still gripping the sheets. She takes them from me, makes the couch a bed. I help out, grabbing pillows and blankets from the linen closet. She makes another little nest of a bed on the floor and tells me to take the couch. I don't argue, just obey. She puts on a movie—Coco—and lays down right below me, one hand holding mine.

"I wish you wouldn't do this to yourself," she says, nearly drowned out by a song. "Will you tell me what happened?"

"No," I say. If I told her what happened, I would reveal that I'm bisexual, fluid. I'm not ready to do that. "I don't want to."

"I got you an appointment tomorrow after school. I am taking you."

"Okay."

She goes silent, watching the movie, emoting on cue. I don't pay attention, I can't, but the colors catch my eye. I squint, watching the way they move and morph, thinking about my paintings. I've been drawing a lot lately, but not painting. I need to get back into it.

"Can you buy me some new paints?" I ask, surprising myself as well as my mom. I should add a "please," but I don't

"Um, sure! We'll see,' she replies. I can hear the smile in her voice.

/\/\/\

Mom doesn't take me to Hobby Lobby. Instead, we drive downtown to the Art Center Supply store. Everything there is the real deal and there are little to no discounts. I wasn't comfortable with it. I felt like I was taking advantage of her and her money, but there was no use fighting it. I already tried.

I've never been inside Art Center Supply, knowing I didn't have the money for nice, name brand supplies. So, when I walk in the doors, I'm blown away. It isn't stunning to really look at, just a store in a strip mall, but every art tool imaginable exists here, transforming the walls around me. Canvases, sketchpads, markers, pencils, paint, printmaking supplies—I can't believe it all. All stuff I dreamed of using but never had the opportunity to use.