𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 ✸ 𝖫𝖤𝖤 𝖧𝖮𝖫𝖫𝖮𝖶𝖠𝖸
𝘈 𝘉𝘖𝘟 𝘍𝘜𝘓𝘓 𝘖𝘍 𝘚𝘏𝘈𝘙𝘗 𝘖𝘉𝘑𝘌𝘊𝘛𝘚
tw for self-harm and domestic violence
The day I was dismissed, Doctor Twardon told me that I could call him anytime, that he would try to be of help to me. It was comforting knowing that his deep, soft voice would be on the other line, ready to tell me what to do to fix everything wrong with me.
I tried calling for the first time last night, but the line was busy. I felt silly. Of course he was busy. He had dozens of other patients to take care of, with real conditions, who weren't sent to the hospital because of a little accident with a kitchen knife. It was selfish I guess, wanting his attention all to myself, only because I wanted to hear something other than my mother's sobs from the living room.
I was too embarrassed to try to call again.
One of the pieces of the broken lamp that daddy had thrown across the living room had flown all the way to the hallway where I found it. I liked that it was sort of heart shaped, made of thick ceramic with a hand-painted flower pattern on one side.
I went back into my room to look in my hiding spot under my bed. I was excited to see that it was still there, wrapped in a pillowcase, my box. Guess mom thought the only sharp things she needed to lock up were the scissors and knives.
My box was my biggest secret. It carried my growing collection of knives, cuticle scissors, broken ceramic, needles and shards of pretty looking glass that I had collected since the seventh grade.
On top of my vanity I lined up my small bottle of iodine, cotton, q-tips, bandages, my whetstone. I took a few minutes sharpening the bottom tip of the heart just enough for it to get a mean little point, then I raised my skirt while holding it in my right hand, trying to find a fresh spot near the existing scabs. The last wounds were three weeks old, from before I went to the hospital. They were already almost healed.
Tears began rolling down my face.
I knew I needed to be smart, to do something different. In the hospital they taught me how to crochet, how to color nicely with crayons. I was taught to create whenever I wanted to hurt myself, but they never told me that out here, I wouldn't wanna do any of those things. I didn't wanna create, I wanted to be taken care of. I hated that no one could do that but me.
Hearing me cry would only make things worse, so I grabbed my pillow and pressed it against my face to drown any sound that came out of me. The only thing I could think of that would give me a tiny bit of relief was something from that little box, and I didn't want that to be true.
