Sleeves

1

"Hey sleeves." I guess the name stuck with me. Ever since my first cut, the first time the blade made contact with my wrists, I've worn sleeves, no matter the time, place, weather. It was always sleeves. One summer in 6th period lunch, a kid named Jared called me sleeves. Everybody calls me it, not knowing the hurt in my head and behind my smile. I guess the nick name got better in high school, in middle school they called me food. So I stopped eating one summer, all but one meal a day which usually consisted of a glass of water and a salad. I got skinny, straightened my hair, put on lip gloss, spent money on my clothes. Suddenly people started liking me, but I didn't talk to them so they left me alone. I sat in the back of the crowds, ate alone at the table. Went home, waited for mom, or dad, even a sibling to come home, to hold me, to tell me in theirs. But no one comes. Mom and Dad left one day, with a note on the counter and a credit card. I'm a senior now, 18. I guess I don't need them here but I still feel alone. At least I don't have to blame the marks on the cat anymore. She's the only thing I have left. Whiskers is her name. She's white, not a spot on her. She's the only one in my house that's wanted. I sit now a days in my room, staring out my window, looking at the open field, waiting. Waiting for someone, anyone. To claim me.