Home – The Night Before
Aaron came down the stairs feeling better. All the tension was gone for the moment, and his history report was as good as done. Every nerve felt on fire. And, even though he was coddling his left leg as he sat down to dinner, he was certain his parents hadn’t noticed.
At one point, his father had asked how his finals were coming along. The brief grunt of an answer was all Aaron needed to sate him and kill the conversation on the vine.
He doesn’t care, Aaron told himself. Just filling the dead space in the air.
He tore into his steak, finished it quickly and excused himself with barely a word spoken.
Aaron went back upstairs to write the rest of his report. Every time he felt his mind roaming towards usual topics, he would run his hand down his leg. He’d press down on the gauze hidden by his jeans, prodding the newest line drawn on his thigh. The momentary pressure was enough: it cleared away the agony of what lay before him the next day.
* * *
History – First Period
“Mister Spiro, may I please have a word?”
Aaron groaned almost audibly as Mr. Bushnell, his History teacher, had once again found something to pull him in for.
The guy wasn’t horrible, but man! Aaron hated his class! So many dates. So many numbers. So much inconsequential information. None of it mattered, but every day he sat there and had to learn it. Memorize it. Regurgitate it.
If Bushnell taught anything else, Aaron might have really liked the guy; but because it was History, he had the sad designation of being the enemy.
Aaron watched as the room flooded out, each of the other students passed by him and eyed him. Each and every one of them judged him. He heard a few girls giggle to their friends because, once again, they had the chance to look at the freak about to be crucified.
He felt his skin flush with rage and embarrassment.
Aaron took a deep breath and reached into his pocket to finger last night’s new mark. His teeth clenched as he felt his heartbeat in the newly healing mark. The dull throb helped him wipe his classmates’ unending gazes from his mind.
It wasn’t until the room was empty that Bushnell gave him that look. Sadness mixed with pity tossed with sternness, all of them in a stew prepared perfectly to make Aaron feel like an infant.
“Look, Aaron,” Bushnell began, “I’m going to give you one more day to hand in this paper. If you don’t, I have to give you a failing grade on it.”
Aaron nodded and mumbled, “Thank you.”
Bushnell eyed him. “Is everything ok with you? You used to do a lot better.”
Shut the hell up! You have no idea, Aaron wished he could scream his thoughts.
Instead, he nodded again and barely managed to say, “I’m fine. I’ll have it for you tomorrow.”
He was out the door before Bushnell could question him more.
* * *
Gym – Third Period
The back corner of the locker room was the best place to change into gym clothes. Aaron liked it there because nobody noticed him—or the cuts on his leg.
Around him, the more athletic kids talked, excited to play softball on a perfect spring day. Meanwhile, the geekier kids tried to forget the fact that they were playing softball on a perfect spring day. And Aaron wanted nothing more than to skip class and go anywhere else.
But where, Aaron?
He sighed, realizing that there was no good answer.
On his way out to the field, the coach asked Aaron why he was wearing sweats on such a nice day. He acted like he didn’t hear.
He was fairly certain that, if he had answered, it would just lead to another round of Point-and-Laugh-at-Aaron-Spiro.
* * *
Lunch – 5th Period
Aaron ate alone.
He wasn’t alone in the way that there weren’t people sitting around him. He was surrounded by people. They were even people he had occasionally hung out with, but none of them were really friends. They were people that he shared some time with occasionally. Distant acquaintances, really.
Amongst them, he was the awkward one, which was hysterical given how awkward the lot of them were.
So there in the group he remained isolated, until Jerome asked him if he was feeling okay.
“You’re looking a little paler than usual,” Jerome said.
Aaron shrugged and mentioned that he wasn’t feeling great. It wasn’t untrue, but he didn’t feel ill the way he hoped Jerome would assume.
Lately, he always felt ill.
Every day he watched as the people at that table grew more and more distant. Next year would be the last year any of them tried to hang out together, and then it would be off to college for some.
Aaron caught a fleeting glance at Mary, who was laughing with the already distracted Jerome. She was miles away. He wished she was closer, but nowadays everybody was miles and miles away.
Aaron slipped a hand in his pocket, but even the pressure of the wound wasn’t enough. He excused himself to go use the bathroom before anybody recognized his clenched jaw and the redness in his eyes.
* * *
Bathroom – 6th Period – Now
Aaron heard the bell ring and realized he was going to be skipping Biology today.
He couldn’t take it. Everything felt wrong. It felt like the pressure of the world was building and needed to explode.
He had felt like this countless times before, but never so quickly in succession. Last night, he had stared at his computer screen for an hour, bringing himself to tears when he had no idea what to write about, and that if he failed the paper he wouldn’t graduate.
So he cut. He felt better, but the paper remained unfinished.
Now, he sat on the toilet, staring at the thin red cut on his leg, blaming it for not helping him feel better.
How come this cut didn’t work? The last one had. The one before that had stopped him from calling Mary after she mentioned how she had gone on a date last month. The one before that had killed the anger he felt when he slipped in gym and everyone made fun of how the grass stains looked like he had shit himself. Even as one idiot after another cracked smart about how the dirt looked like he had taken a crap, the coach just watched with that knowing smirk.
How come this last one didn’t work?
He needed another.
He had promised himself at the beginning of the year that he would never do it at school. He had promised himself that he would never do it twice in a week, too. But he couldn’t deny he had been breaking that rule a lot these days.
He rubbed his fingers against last night’s.
Not enough. He needed it.
Aaron gave in. He knew he would. He unzipped the front of his backpack and took out the straight razor he’d kept on him for the better part of the year.
His breath trembled. He licked his lips and squared his fingers around where he would leave the mark. The ritual of knowing where he was going to put it was important. He had control over his body and control over how he marked it.
His leg was marked with nearly a dozen lines in various states of health. Scars. Badges. Trophies. He had tried to call them a dozen different names, but in the end they were more just admissions of problems that he couldn’t fix.
One mark was history.
One or two marks were Mary.
Another two or three were idiots at gym.
A couple were acne.
Another few he couldn’t remember, but knew each one was a night that he couldn’t fix.
Aaron felt the cold flat side of the blade on his skin. He inhaled deeply, his eyes dimming in near-ecstasy as he pressed the blade. Then came the pain and he let out a gasp.
It slid so easily–the white-hot clarity, the wetness, the complete and utter focus–as he screamed out. This would fix it. This would fix everything.
“Aaron?”
Someone was outside the bathroom stall. Jerome?
He dropped the blade into the scattered droplets of blood.
His voice trembled through tears brought on by the pain as he said, “I’m ha-having some stomach problems. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“I don’t buy it, Aaron.” Jerome’s voice was concerned, but… was it real? “So, tell me right: I am calling the hospital or are you going to kick that razor away and we start talking?”
Aaron swallowed the snot that dribbled down the back of his throat.
He said, “Just go away, Jerome. I’m fine.”
There came a laugh so uncomfortable and forced that Aaron couldn’t help but take notice.
Jerome said, “Like hell you are. Now kick the razor away or, so help me, I’ll call the cops. I’m not even joking.”
Aaron muttered, “The hospital sounded better.”
Jerome, frustrated, sighed. “Look, I’m not going to do any of that if you come out here and talk to me. I’m your friend, Aaron. Somewhere along the way, I think you forgot that. And I’m not the only one that noticed. Please, man… Do the right thing. I’ll help you figure it out.”
The right thing. What was that anymore?
Aaron assessed the situation. He was in the bathroom, pants and underwear at his ankles, holding a half-inch knick from a straight razor while his friend assumed he was going to kill himself. It didn’t look good.
Why did Jerome give a damn anyway? Why wouldn’t he leave him alone? Why couldn’t Jerome just ignore him like they all ignored–
Aaron’s mind froze, unable to continue the thought.
Past the pain and hate and apathy, the answer was there. It was like the sun had burst through the overcast clouds swelling in Aaron’s head. Aaron felt it for the first time in so long that it actually surprised him, so much that he laughed just a little.
Jerome was his friend. Really. Actually. If he wasn’t a friend, then Jerome wouldn’t have been there.
He should talk to him. It wasn’t going to fix History, and it wouldn’t stop morons from saying moronic things. It sure as hell wouldn’t fix the fact that his parents should be divorced, but he missed having a friend. He wanted to talk to someone.
No, not someone: Jerome. His friend.
Aaron kicked the razor away. For the first time, he considered that maybe it was part of the problem and not–as he had been hanging onto for so long–the solution.