Page 6

Charlie

A s soon as the guy turns away from our table, I’m gone. I didn’t even say bye to Lily and Noah. Just grabbed my bag and bolted.

I’m back in my townhouse trying not to have a heart attack. Pacing back and forth, my brain is racing, and I can’t catch my breath.

Why did he have my sketchbook?

Did he look through it?

Did he rip out any of the pages?

Does he like my drawings?

He touched me!

He was so close I could smell his bodywash.

It’s too much…

I run to my bathroom and open the drawer of my vanity. I push all the random shit to the side, feeling for the bag that I taped to the back of it. I slowly peel it off, making sure not to rip it. I look at the contents as I drop to my ass and scoot back against the cool wall.

Carefully opening the bag, I pull out the razor blade, the playing card, and the grinder that’s full of weed. I grab the pack of hemp rolling papers and my navy blue zippo out of the messy drawer. Opening the grinder I dump out the weed, making quick work of rolling myself a joint.

Lighting the end, I inhale as much as I can, and hold it in my lungs until my eyes start to water. As I slowly let it out, I start to settle. Taking another hit of the citrusy smoke, I unbutton my jeans and push them down past my knees. Grabbing the razor blade, I inspect it for any lingering blood.

Taking another drag of my joint, I bring the razor to the top of my inner thigh and slowly cut my skin from side to side.

The burning sensation takes my breath for a second, but once it passes, everything just…stops. My heart slows, and my breathing becomes easier. It feels so good and calming that I do it again and again. By the time I smoke my joint down to the roach, I have four new cuts on the inside of my thigh.

I look down at the blood dripping onto the floor and smear it around with my finger over the scars that mark my pale skin. It makes them more visible reminding me how many times I’ve done this.

Taking my joint, I put it out on the inside of my elbow. The instant sting takes away the last bit of pain in my thigh. There are small round burn marks up and down both of my arms in varying stages of healing. Most of them are faded to a barely there pink color. But my most recent ones are bright pink with black scabs around the edges.

I continue to push the joint down long enough for the pain in my leg to disappear and for the new pain in my arms to register. Sometimes, I'll have to light a cigarette just to put it out on my skin a few seconds later. I try not to go too deep with the cuts on my legs, but I can’t help it sometimes, and the extra burn from the cigarette helps redirect the pain.

With my heart rate back to normal and the voices in my head finally quiet, I get up off the floor, keeping my head lowered so I don’t see my reflection in the mirror.

I don't want to look at myself.

Ashamed, I grab the first aid kit and start cleaning up my thigh. Popping two Ambien, I head for my bed. I don't care what time it is. But first I need to see if that guy messed with my sketchbook. I grab it and climb on my bed to cover myself with a mountain of blankets. It doesn't look like he tore anything out. I turn a few more pages and stop.

He didn't!

On my drawing of Benji holding up the trophy with his teammates, this fucking asshole signed his name right above where I drew one of them.

Wait, is that…

Looking closer at it, I remember seeing his face on the jumbo screen during a break in the game. His light blue eyes almost matched the color of the ice. Fuck, it’s him.

What was his name again? Glancing back down at the picture, the number seven is visible on the side of his black jersey. Reaching for my phone, I open the Gannon University website. Tapping the sports tab, I click on hockey and am greeted by three guys’ pictures. On the left is Benji, on the right is some guy named Matthew Kane, and right there in the middle is Shane Hawkins. Mr. Blue eyes himself. He has a C on the upper left side of his jersey while the other two have an A.

So, he’s the captain of the hockey team. Great. Still, he had no right to mark up my drawing.

Tossing my phone back on the floor, I look back at his smiling face. I should rip this up.

As I’m about to do just that, I see numbers scribbled further down on the page along with a message.

Text or call me sometime beautiful. -Shane

Who the fuck even does that?

He thinks I’m beautiful?

No, he doesn’t you moron. Who would ever think your ugly ass is beautiful?

You’re too pale.

Too skinny.

You’re covered in scars.

You’re too small.

Argh!

FUCK!

I try to get up, but the Ambien has started kicking in, and I'm sluggish as hell. My arms start to get heavy, and I'm struggling to keep my eyes open. Fuck it. I'll deal with this shit tomorrow. Dropping the sketchbook on my end table, I turn over and throw the blankets over my head. Between the weed and meds, I'll hopefully get enough sleep to wake up forgetting today even happened.

I wake sometime later to someone rubbing my forehead softly.

“Go away,” I grumble.

I hear someone snicker from further away, then a tug on my hair.

“Nope. It’s late, and I want to go home, so your ass needs to show me that you’re ok,” comes Lily’s soft voice.

I slowly open one eye and slam it closed again. “Turn the fucking light off. It’s too damn bright.”

She turns my lamp off as I hear the switch by the door, which means Noah is here, too.

I cautiously open my eyes and relax when the only light is from the soft glow of the kitchen light coming through my door.

“What? I’m fine,” I croak when I see their glares. My throat is dry as hell. How long did I sleep?

“Dude, you’ve been passed out and have hardly moved an inch since we got here at five,” Noah says, folding his arms over his chest.

I look at the clock and see it’s almost one in the morning. I have no clue what time I fell asleep. I know it was around twelve thirty when I went to the café, and I remember seeing two sixteen on my phone when I grabbed it to look up the hockey player.

Shit, I slept for almost ten hours. That’s the most I’ve gotten in a while.

I push the blankets down as I sit up and scoot back so I’m leaning against the headboard. “Well, I’m fine and now I’m awake. Anything else?”

They look at each other and then back at me. Noah rolls my chair from my desk over and sits down with a serious look on his face. “What’s going on, dude? We know you don’t like loud places, but running out at lunch like your ass was on fire was a bit much.”

Lily reaches for my hand, looking me in the eye. “Please talk to us, Jax. I know something is up besides the sketchbook thing.” She took to calling me Jax after she found out about my crush on Charlie Hunnam.

With my hand still in hers, I watch as she spots the new burn mark. She gives me a knowing look. We’ve known each other since freshman year in high school, so she knows how I got them. But not why.

Letting out a deep breath, I give her a tight-lipped smile, refusing to say anything.

“So, that’s it then?” Noah grunts.

I turn my head to him and nod with the same tight smile.

He lets out a short puff of air through his nose and stands up. “Alright Lil, he clearly doesn’t want to talk. I need to get some sleep before my eight AM class.”

Lily stands and trails after him. When she gets to the door, she turns back to me with a sad smile. “You need to put some Neosporin on that so it doesn’t get infected.” I nod, waiting for her to leave.

“We’ll talk later when you’re more awake and he’s in class.” She tilts her head towards the door.

“Sure,” I say quietly.

She leaves my room, and I wait until I hear the front door close. Letting out a slow breath, I sink back down so I’m back under my blankets.

Sometimes, I wish she would forget about me. I wouldn’t be a burden that she’s always worried about, and she could hang out with her better friends who always make her smile. Why she keeps hanging out with me is confusing.

I try to go back to sleep but my bladder is cramping. I begrudgingly get out of bed and head to the bathroom. After I piss, I head to the small kitchen for some water and food.

I find my last bottle of water in my now empty fridge. I chug it as I look in the cabinets for something to eat. All I find is an opened box of stale Froot Loops, a half-eaten bag of cheddar Sun Chips, and an unopened jar of crunchy peanut butter. Grabbing the bag of chips, I head to my art room.

I live in an on-campus townhouse by myself. I was able to get one without a roommate thanks to the partial trust fund money I got after I graduated high school. My account took a decent hit, but if there was one thing I couldn’t deal with, it was sharing my space.

I converted the other bedroom into my art room. I shoved the bed into the closet, and put the desk and end table into the living room so I could have as much space as possible to work.

I flip on the light and connect my phone to the Bluetooth speaker, turning on my rock mix. Sound of Madness by Shinedown comes on.

There’s an easel in the corner with a half-finished tiger head I’m in the middle of painting. I don’t feel like painting, though, so I head to the closet and grab a block of clay.

Setting it on my worktable, I unwrap the plastic and start cutting off chunks with a wire clay cutter. Not really knowing what to sculpt, I grab the cake turntable that I custom-made for my sculptures. After making sure the turntable won’t move, I ball up some paper and begin tapping it to the stand until it’s solid. Then, I start adding clay.

I get so lost in my head that by the time my hands have gone numb, the sun is rising. I shake out my hands and lean back, inspecting my work.

There’s a man smiling back at me with a square jaw, perfectly straight teeth, smooth, thin lips, high cheekbones, a button nose, and straight eyebrows with a tiny scar going through the left one. He has gentle eyes that I know to be as light blue as a Red-Spotted Purple butterfly that I once saw in Tennessee.

He's the beautiful one, not me.

I’ve only seen him twice but both times he was wearing a backwards black Gannon U hat. I need to add it to my sculpture but now that I’ve stopped concentrating, I register that my ass hurts from sitting for so long.

I grab a few hand towels from the closet and go to the bathroom to get them damp. I head back and cover the sculpture. Grabbing a plastic bag, I cover the whole thing and make sure there aren’t any openings so it doesn’t dry. I adjust the blackout curtains so no sunlight can get through and close the door behind me as I step out.

Yawning so big my jaw pops, I contemplate going to class. I only have one at ten, and I have the material memorized. But I know myself, and I’ll pace the length of my room for the hour I’d be in class if I don’t go.

On my way there, I’m feeling good dressed in a black From Ashes to New long-sleeve shirt and my favorite ripped black skinny jeans. The cold shower woke me up, but this outfit gave me that little boost of confidence I needed to face the day.

I’m almost there when I stop in Sip n’ Go for a much-needed pick me up.

I make my way to the front to grab a Red Bull from the cooler when I’m grabbed by the shoulder and pulled backward. I trip on something and my momentum has me losing my footing. My ribs hit the edge of a table, sending a jolt of pain through my midsection. I try to grab the back of a chair to keep from hitting the ground, but it falls with me, and the metal frame hits me in the cheek.

I cover my ribs and curl into the fetal position, waiting for more.

It’s like high school all over again.

“There’s a line for a reason, dipshit! You aren’t better than anyone, and you sure as hell aren’t getting your coffee before me.”

There’s so much venom in his voice that I curl into an even tighter ball even though my ribs are screaming in pain.

Please just do it and get it over with.

Loser!

Freak!

“Hey. What’s going on?”

I peek over my arm and see Shane standing next to the same bald guy who knocked me over the other day.

Oh God.

They’re both jocks and are probably about to tag team beating the shit out of me.

I start to shake, so I tuck my head back behind my arm and try not to tense up.

It’ll only make it worse.

They say something to each other, but I can’t hear it over the sound of my heart beating in my ears. My rapid breathing makes my ribs feel like they’re splitting.

Just kick me in the head so I can be knocked out.