The Eccedentesiast

Chapter Nine

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Chapter Nine
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"Stop," Emma begged.

"I'm trying to help, sweetie," Martin cooed.

"It's going to hurt." Emma gulped while her eyes kept wide at the sharp blade that Martin was urging her to take.

"Only for a bit. It'll make you feel better," he tried convincing. "You can't tell your mom about this, understand?" his thick Irish accent intimidated her—making him sound angry all the time but the rapid beat of her heart was the thing that scared her today.

"Okay."

"Good." Martin reaches over to her and caressed her cheek for a second. Emma tried not to flinch at his cold touch. "Watch me again. Okay?"

Emma nodded, small tears pricking in her eyes. "O-Okay," she stammered.

"You have to hold it tight," he instructed, holding on to the silver blade. "Then . . ." he held it over his skin, ". . . you cut," he told her. His attention turned over to Emma every few seconds to make sure she was looking directly at what he wanted her to look at. He looked back down and started cutting down on the skin of his forearm. "There." He gestured at the deep, open cut. "Doesn't it look fun?" he inquired.

She's never seen anyone do this to themselves before. She watched the blood slowly ooze out. There was so much, it eventually started dripping on the wooden floor and he didn't care—he was mesmerized, like looking at a painting.

"Go ahead and try it, honey," he encouraged. He handed her a different blade, a smaller one that didn't come from a uline snap-blade knife. He handed her a razor blade.

Emma shakily took it from his hand. "Why?" she asked.

"Because-" he paused. He was almost frustrated, not being able to explain it in some way she'd understand completely. "It's the only thing that'll help you through the most miserable moments."

"Oh," she simply said.

Her silent sobs went away, believing what he was saying. She believed that this was what she would always have to turn to. She believed that it was her only hope. Her parent was who she trusted.

"Do what I did," he said. "You're ten. You'll know how to hide it from your ma."

Emma swallowed hard. She nodded slowly. She ran the blade down her forearm until she reached her tiny wrist. Her skin seemed almost transparent and it was like she knew where to cut. The veins that showed blue were almost palpitating in such force that made her think they were calling out to her. She did what he did—she cut, deeply.

Emma's eyes turned dry all of a sudden. She didn't cry. It hurts, she thought. It burned.

𖨆

"Wow," Emma gasped. "I thought it wasn't open 'til next week?"

Shawn shrugged, smiling. "My older brother has a friend that has a friend. Let's just say I owe him a big one," he pressed.

Emma laughed. "What is he making you do?"

Shawn laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh, Nothing."