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xxlucyferxxThis is potentially for my Creative Writing portfolio. It's not very good, but it's honest.
“Why do you always wear those?” It’s an innocent question, mere friendly curiosity, and it sets my heart pounding more than any deliberate insult or blatant breach of etiquette could. I always dread this question – there’s only so long it can go unasked.
“I like them.” Calm smile, indifferent shrug.
Unfortunately, this one’s persistent. “You always keep your arms covered, though. Don’t you get hot?”
“Well, I don’t mind warm weather.” That’s a lie, of course. Summer always causes trouble. In winter, long sleeves are normal. In summer, they draw unwanted attention. They invite people to start asking questions that, frankly, I’m sick to death of answering.
It’s not that I’m ashamed. Most people who know me have seen my scars, and some days I even derive an exhibitionistic thrill from leaving the house without my precious arm-warmers. Most days, though, I don’t feel like dealing with it all; the questions, the stares, the awkward shuffling of feet. Other people feel uncomfortable, torn between concern and disgust. They think I’m fragile. Past tense doesn’t seem to register with them – nobody believes me when I tell them I’ve stopped. Not that it matters; it’s none of their business, anyway.
The curly-haired boy in front of me isn’t backing down. I can see him hesitate, weighing up the odds of taking the plunge. “Are you a cutter or something?” he blurts, his tone light and teasing as if to tell me he doesn’t really think that. Have it your way, then.
“I went through a pretty rough time a while ago, and I didn’t cope so well. I don’t do it anymore. It’s no big deal.”
“Oh.” His cheeks flush bright red, his eyes fixed determinedly on the ground. “Well, um, I’m sorry.” He has no idea what to say. Serves you right for being so curious.
“Don’t worry about it. Look, I have to get to class.” We smile and nod, acting as if this was a completely casual conversation. His strides are just a little too fast as he walks away.
He’ll think about what I told him for hours, no doubt. He’ll wonder how anyone could do that to their own body, and after much careful thought he’ll reach the conclusion that I do it for attention. He’ll gossip, telling his friends all about it with wide eyes. “You know that emo chick, the one from French class? Yeah, her…apparently she cuts herself.”
I’m not ashamed. I’ve heard too much gossip for it to hurt me anymore. I just wonder if I’m ever going to find someone who can see past the scars. Someone who can look at me and see not the unstable fuck-up I was a year ago, but the person I am now. The intelligent, independent girl who’s learnt to take responsibility for herself and her mistakes.
I don’t expect I will, to be honest. It’s so much easier to just write me off as a hopeless case. Nobody wants to get too close, and I don’t really blame them. After all, who could love a girl with scars?
“I like them.” Calm smile, indifferent shrug.
Unfortunately, this one’s persistent. “You always keep your arms covered, though. Don’t you get hot?”
“Well, I don’t mind warm weather.” That’s a lie, of course. Summer always causes trouble. In winter, long sleeves are normal. In summer, they draw unwanted attention. They invite people to start asking questions that, frankly, I’m sick to death of answering.
It’s not that I’m ashamed. Most people who know me have seen my scars, and some days I even derive an exhibitionistic thrill from leaving the house without my precious arm-warmers. Most days, though, I don’t feel like dealing with it all; the questions, the stares, the awkward shuffling of feet. Other people feel uncomfortable, torn between concern and disgust. They think I’m fragile. Past tense doesn’t seem to register with them – nobody believes me when I tell them I’ve stopped. Not that it matters; it’s none of their business, anyway.
The curly-haired boy in front of me isn’t backing down. I can see him hesitate, weighing up the odds of taking the plunge. “Are you a cutter or something?” he blurts, his tone light and teasing as if to tell me he doesn’t really think that. Have it your way, then.
“I went through a pretty rough time a while ago, and I didn’t cope so well. I don’t do it anymore. It’s no big deal.”
“Oh.” His cheeks flush bright red, his eyes fixed determinedly on the ground. “Well, um, I’m sorry.” He has no idea what to say. Serves you right for being so curious.
“Don’t worry about it. Look, I have to get to class.” We smile and nod, acting as if this was a completely casual conversation. His strides are just a little too fast as he walks away.
He’ll think about what I told him for hours, no doubt. He’ll wonder how anyone could do that to their own body, and after much careful thought he’ll reach the conclusion that I do it for attention. He’ll gossip, telling his friends all about it with wide eyes. “You know that emo chick, the one from French class? Yeah, her…apparently she cuts herself.”
I’m not ashamed. I’ve heard too much gossip for it to hurt me anymore. I just wonder if I’m ever going to find someone who can see past the scars. Someone who can look at me and see not the unstable fuck-up I was a year ago, but the person I am now. The intelligent, independent girl who’s learnt to take responsibility for herself and her mistakes.
I don’t expect I will, to be honest. It’s so much easier to just write me off as a hopeless case. Nobody wants to get too close, and I don’t really blame them. After all, who could love a girl with scars?
