He Asked Me...

We never plan these things, but they happen. We never ask for them, but they are given. I never planned this, I never asked for it. I didn't want it, but it is mine.


I face the blade again. Dull silver sin in a pure white house. A device of my own design. Simple. Deadly. I hear the voice; "You said it was the end last time!" "Once more, I whisper. It's cold pressure. It slides smoothly. Then it's over. I rinse the blade, my arm. The razor goes in the back, behind the towels. I pull my sleeve down and finish filling my backpack.


I enter the school, mother still screaming in my head. The bag on my back rests uncomfortably on bruised shoulders. Father is a hard man to please. I look around me, every one scuttles like beetles, afraid of some omnipotent foot. I feel more like an ant, less significant, less noticeable.


No friends. No hope of making any. They all seem so nice. They seem nice. They're not. They laugh at the slightest mistake on anyone's part. Don't mess up, I tell myself. Too afraid to stand and turn in my papers. First day of school, missing work already. They're right. I am a failure.


Lunchtime comes. I stare at the ceiling, standing in the center of the hall. I walk past the cafeteria. Last one to pass, far too late. A whole table looks up at me. Some laugh, some roll their eyes, some go back to their own lives. One doesn't. He stares. I'd noticed him in another class. Had he stared then, too? I can't remember. He doesn't look away, and I realize I've stopped walking. I duck and rush out the door.


The final bell rings. My arm is bruised again. Too many times it's been shoved into walls. I know I have to go home, face mother, avoid faster. Listen to sister. Not worth much to them. I know it. I can fix it. One more time, out from the back, behind the towels. One more time and it's over. Tonight.


I forgot my bag. I don't even know why it matters, though I hurry back to the room where I left it. As I walk in, I walk into him. I mutter an apology, grab my pack from the back of the room. He's still there.


"What's wrong?" His voice, not berating like everyone else. I tell him nothing.


"What's wrong?" Again, two words.


I look in his eyes. Pure concern for no reason. He doesn't know me. He takes me by the shoulders. I cringe. It doesn't even hurt, though. He notices. He figures it out, pulls his arms away.


I quickly cling to him. He is startled, but he holds me too. I tell him everything.


I see him the next day. The next. A month, two. I'm still here. It's mine still. Not as much, but, a little bit is still mine. But it's not mine alone.