Chapter Text
23/10/24, Wed
Everyone crowded around them, staring and pointing at their test paper. 19 out of 20, they whispered. Top in class.
They bunched up their shoulders, smiling weakly. Jezebel sauntered up to tower over them and grinned. “Good job, Alyssa. Highest score again!” She laughed and turned to one of her sometimes-friends. “You know, she always gets one of the best in class for every test. Well, every one except history.”
They smiled wider, Jezebel’s laughing and their classmates remarks blurred into white noise in their ears. The teacher, having given out all the papers already, peered down at the paper in their hands and gave them a pat on the back. “Hmm, a very good job. Keep it up.” They continued to smile, nodding faintly in acknowledgment.
One of their hands snaked under the pages and clutched a frayed strand of their faded yellow cardigan. They twirled it between their fingers as their teacher commented, “It’s a surprise you didn’t join a better school.”
They didn’t run to the bathroom the minute the bell rang; they took their time, only getting up to move after two hundred and seventy-three seconds, using that time to do what seemed like recounting marks to mask their muffled countdown. They didn’t stand outside the girls’ toilet—the only option in the first place—for five minutes anxiously debating whether or not to go in; they had been going to the same one for years—the one they were supposed to be going to, the one they should belong to, the one they felt like an intruder whenever they stepped inside. They didn’t slam the cubicle door and slide down to the floor with their head in their hands. They slid the pin as smoothly as they could and took a deep breath behind the closed door.
They acted normal.
They leaned against the door, the only separation between their private thoughts and reality. They slid slowly until they were sitting on the floor with their arms around their legs. In. Out. In. Out. They breathed in time with the tears streaming down their cheeks. A moment passed and the next step was due. The pocketknife was extracted from its cosy nest inside their pocket. The blade was flicked out.
Their hand shook violently with the blade still in it, choked breathing escalating. They knew what was to come next would help, would relieve the pain, if only for a few sacred minutes. They hated the way they always reacted the same cowardly way again and again, even after doing this so many times. It was supposed to be easier every time, knowing first-hand how much better it would make everything. So why can’t I just do it?
It took them three fucking minutes to calm down enough to finally raise the knife. Their hands were still trembling, breath still shaking. Pathetic. You deserve to feel this pain, and yet you still don’t have the courage to face it.
Just pathetic. So stupid, grades are the only thing you’re good for. You might as well kill yourself. They pushed their left sleeve up all the way, exposing a patch of neat little scars on their arm. Come on, go ahead and do it.
The words channelled their hand, fingers gripping the knife even tighter, and finally cutting into the patch on their other arm. They felt the blade pierce through their skin and their tears fall beside it, landing on some of the older marks. There weren’t many—they had only gone back to cutting a few days ago. Still, only some of those were the more recent ones. Not all of them healed.
Their skin felt too thick and rubbery. When they removed the knife, the only sign that it’s ever been there was a thin rope of red that started to bleed out and trickle down their arm. The pain hadn’t sunk in yet, and they were still trapped in the high. They breathed in and it was too sharp. They breathed out again and everything was numb. It was almost euphoric to simply know that they could do this over and over again, anytime they wanted. It scared them too.
They hadn’t realised how long they had been in the restroom until the bell chimed from the speaker directly outside the toilets. The last few minutes had blurred into tears and blood and pain. They lifted their arm to check their watch. 8 minutes left. They sighed. Blinking the tears out of their eyes, they stood up from their crouched position they had been in for the last half hour or so, shaking the sleep out of their legs. They yanked the stray paper hanging out from the dispenser and began the clean-up.
Two squares of toilet paper. They lay it flat on the wound, pressing firmly. At the same time, the sleeve went up, hiding the make-shift bandage from sight. The dull yellow cardigan was probably the best cloth they ever wore to school. It fit the image—the smart, shy girl that never really talked to anyone, ever. They She just sat there with her head in one hand, always daydreaming. Dreaming about the day they will be free.
It just so happened to be the perfect disguise for their scars. And it fit the real them, too. A’s and 90’s covering the flashbacks and nightmares and panic-attacks. No one expected the nothing-but-smart kid to be struggling at anything. And they would like to keep it that way. It was the least they could do for their family.
They tugged at the toilet paper roll again. Giving the pocketknife a quick swipe with the paper in hand, they dropped the used paper into the toilet bowl and flushed. They watched as the blood—their blood—flowed in the water, as if it was not part of it, but was still pushed and pulled around by the current. They couldn’t tear their eyes off the red stream even as it blurred.
It’s a surprise you didn’t join a better school. The words repeated itself before they had a chance to drown it out. They had tried. Their teachers all thought they would get high grades not perfect, of course and join one of the private girls’ schools in the neighbourhood that cost their parents blood, sweat and tears to move into for their children. After all, even a little broken can still pass the bar. But they never did. Just before the finals, they got worse and worse and the cracks began to show. Mediocre was a good description of their grades. And so was this school.
They sniffed and wiped their eyes. That was when the pain finally started to sink in. It was impossibly dull and faded, and barely softened the voices in their head. They couldn’t afford to cut any deeper, shed more blood. They knew someone would notice then. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do. No one could know how weak they were or how much they fucked up.
They stepped out of the bathroom and walked back to class. Their tears were gone, eyes bright and cheerful as the moment they stepped into school that morning and a big confident smile plastered on their face.