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DEEPENING FEELINGS AND COPING MECHANISMS

Lizzie

NOVEMBER 15, 1998

T HE FIRST TIME I TOOK A KNIFE TO MY SKIN WAS LAST SPRING, AND IT WAS THE RESULT of an accident peeling an apple. The slice of the knife through my fingertip brought an instant onslaught of pain and blood. But it also brought a strange sense of clarity . I remembered because that was a bad day and afterwards it was bearable.

The next time I hurt myself it was an almost accident with a bowl of piping hot porridge. I remembered it like it was yesterday. Sitting on the couch with the steaming hot bowl on my lap. Staring into the bowl, I slowly tipped it sideways to taste the lick of burn on my legs. Watching the thick, burning gruel seep through my tights, searing my flesh like a thousand needles.

The pain was instant, and it was glorious .

The third time was no accident, even though it was the most plausible. Intentionally sitting on the fire hearth in my nightdress, with my toes directly in front of the roaring fire, lying in wait, I remained motionless every time a spark landed on my bare legs. It wasn’t until a larger knob of reddened coal landed on the hem of my nightdress that any of my family took notice of what I was doing. Even then, as my nightdress caught on fire and they quickly whipped it over my head, they didn’t question my motives, putting my carelessness down to a reckless child getting too close to the fire.

Before then, I used to scratch and tear at my skin or burn myself in the bath when the pressure in my head got too much, but nothing I’d ever tried before compared to the peace I found from the sharp edge of a blade.

After that, I was a slave to the pain.

To the temporary relief from my pain.

The pain nobody could see.

The pain in my mind.

I was careful to conceal my scars from the outside world with stacks of bracelets on my wrists and oversized clothing. I protected my secret solace like my life depended on it, because in all honesty, on my really bad days, it did .

My weapon of choice became the blade, and my flesh became the battlefield, where I waged an internal war on the parts of me that couldn’t be healed. The battle began on the inner side of my fleshy thighs, until there wasn’t any room left to fight, and by that stage, the battlefield transferred to my stomach, and then to my breasts, until settling on my wrists.

The temporary relief from mental torture led me to playing with knives while other girls my age played with dolls. I was clever to conceal, to cut just deep enough to find relief but not bring attention to myself. After all, it was attention that had started the war in my head.

I didn’t feel bad about it, either.

I was doing this for me.

I was trying to survive and had finally found a way to make it through the days without wanting to die.

“What’s wrong?” Hugh asked for the tenth time since I’d arrived at his house. “I know something’s wrong.” We were sitting in his treehouse, where we were supposed to be reading, except instead he was worrying. About me .

“Hugh, I’m grand ,” I replied for the tenth time. “Stop worrying.”

“I can’t.” He reached over and traced his finger over the part of my brow between my eyebrows. “You get a dimple right here when you’re worried.”

“I do?”

“Yeah, it’s a tiny one, but it’s there,” he explained, brown eyes flicking to mine. “So I know something’s bothering you.”

Knowing that he wouldn’t give in until he got his answer, I sighed heavily before admitting, “It’s the nightmares.”

Concern filled his eyes. “They’re happening a lot again?”

I nodded.

“What about the lady?” He didn’t laugh or smirk when he asked. He looked genuinely concerned. “Have you been seeing her, too?”

“I’m not supposed to talk about it.” It pissed my father off and I couldn’t risk getting on his bad side. “You know that.”

“You can tell me anything,” Hugh pushed, unwilling to let it go. “And I want to hear about it, Liz.”

I arched a disbelieving brow. “You want to hear about my mental delusions?”

“You’re not mental, Liz.” Reaching for my hand, he pulled me onto his lap. “And you’re not delusional, either.” Wrapping his arms around me, he snuggled me tightly. “But you may be guilty of being a little weirdo.”

“You dick,” I snickered, elbowing his stomach. “You know what they say about weirdos, don’t you?”

“They’re drawn to fellow weirdos?” Hugh mused with a knowing smile. “That must be why I’m so obsessed with you.”

My heart skipped a solid three beats in my chest when he said that.

Feeling irrationally excited, I burrowed in closer, wishing I could weld my body to his and never be parted. “Hugh?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think she’s real?”

“The scary lady?”

I nodded. “The one in my dreams.”

“I’ve never seen the one in your head,” he replied, sounding sincere. “But I know what we saw that day, Liz, and if you say that’s her, then I believe you.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” He leaned back to look at me. “I do.”

“I think you might be the first person who ever has,” I whispered, fingers knotting in his hoodie. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me for believing you,” he replied, sounding pained. “Thank me when I catch her and prove to everyone else that we were telling the truth all along.”

My eyes widened. “You want to catch her?”

He nodded. “Oh, you better believe that I’m going to catch her.” Smirking, he added, “She’s the kind of weirdo not welcome in our club.”

I shuddered in revulsion. “Definitely not.”

“When I catch her, our first pit stop will be the car wash,” he continued to say, lips twitching with amusement. “We’ll probably have to put her through the platinum wash twice to get the filth off her—and borrow an angle grinder to tame those claws.”

I couldn’t help but laugh because Hugh had somehow made something so traumatizing funny instead.