“I WANT EIGHT ONE HUNDRED frees on the one twenty. Fast breakouts, and keep those legs up,” David calls out from the pool deck.
I quickly pass Taylor, who’s swimming in the lane next to mine. My times are back down, and I couldn’t be happier. And although my shoulder still pains me every now and then, it’s nothing I can’t power through.
David has been pushing me a bit harder lately, which is causing more swelling, but again, I’m determined to make the most of these last few meets we have coming up. I’d hate for all this work—all this struggle—to go to waste. I’ve pushed myself too hard to allow this final season to slip past me.
After practice, I hit the showers. I close the vinyl curtain behind me before I slip off my towel, always careful to keep my scars concealed. Even though I do what I can to hide them from David, I’m still surprised he hasn’t noticed how many more I’ve added since I made him the promise to stop.
It was just this morning when I last cut. I woke up with a tear-stained face and a misery so tender I was scared to touch it, so instead, I sliced myself open and watched as it drained out of me. The relief was sensational. I cut deeper than all the ones before, gifting myself even greater satisfaction. It bled for a long time after I bandaged it, and now, after being in the water, the soggy scab falls off.
The shower spray takes a stream of blood down the drain as I clean myself and wash my hair. I stand under the water a little while longer and stare at the opening. Watching it grants me even more lightening. It’s just a hint of what I feel when I actually cut, but I’ll take any easement I can.
Eventually, I shut the water off and grab my towel that’s slung over the curtain rod to dry myself off. When it’s secured around me, I step out and pick up my clothes sitting on the bench. Echoes of laughter and talking bounce through the locker room. I quickly slip on my underwear and pants, pulling them up beneath the towel that’s spotted in tinges of pink. I blot my wound and then lower the towel around my waist while I fasten my bra.
When I hear the voices of a few girls drawing closer from behind the half wall dividing the showers from the lockers, I reach down with quick hands to get my shirt. The towel loosens and, before I can grab it, it falls to the wet floor.
My eyes meet Taylor’s.
I snatch up the towel and use it to cover my stomach, but her expression holds the shock of my truth. She drops her eyes down to the blood, which is stark against the white towel, and my skin pricks instantly.
“Oh my God.”
“Leave me alone, Taylor,” I tell her, trying to brush it off because maybe she didn’t see the source.
“What is that all over your stomach?” She takes a step toward me and reaches for my towel.
I slap her hand away. “What’s your problem?”
“Are you cutting yourself?”
“What?” I pitch an octave too high. “No.”
“Then what are all those scars?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She crosses her arms with smugness. “Drop the towel then.”
I huff loudly, scared and annoyed all at the same time, and walk off. She’s quick to follow though, giving me no privacy to slip on my shirt.
“Seriously, Taylor. Leave me alone.”
“What’s going on?” a girl says as I go to my locker, and my fingers tremble when I work the combination to the lock.
“Cam’s slicing and dicing.”
“Shut the fuck up, Taylor!” I snap when I turn around, garnering the attention of nearly the whole team.
I’m still in my bra when she yanks the stained towel out of my hand, and panic paralyzes me in a hot second.
“Eww, gross.” She reacts as several others stare in disgust.
My body flames in mortification, and I shrug on my shirt as fast as I can, slip on my flip-flops, and grab my bag before rushing out. Water from my hair soaks the shoulders of my shirt. I walk around the pool deck to make a quick getaway, but Taylor is right behind me, taunting, “You seriously need help.”
“Back off!”
“Hey,” David shouts from his office at the top of the stairs, but I don’t stop. “What’s going on?”
God, I want to fucking die.
“Cam’s cutting herself,” Taylor announces for everyone to hear. All eyes land on me, and I immediately hear David running down the stairs when I bolt. “Her stomach is hacked up and bleeding.”
“Taylor!” David shouts as I run. “My office. Now!”
Flying through the doors, I feel like vomiting. Sleet falls from the sky, pelting my face as I hightail it to my car. In seconds, I’ve got the key in the ignition and am speeding recklessly out of the parking lot.
With my stomach in knots, I drive too fast, rolling through stop signs in my bit to get home before I break. I take in choppy breaths my lungs choke on before screaming out and slamming my fists against the steering wheel.
I hate Taylor so much, I could kill her with my bare hands. She’s such a bitch, and now, everyone knows the freak I am. They all know my secret, and for what? So she could have the satisfaction of tearing me down and humiliating me in front of everyone? And what the hell is David saying to her right now? Whatever it is, I’m sure she’s eating up the attention he’s giving her, even if it’s pure hate he’s spewing her way. Everyone knows she gets off to him—she’s so fucking desperate for him to notice her.
I wish I could stab the knife of truth—that it’s me who sleeps in his bed—through her tarred heart just to see her suffer.
Slamming the front door behind me, I leave fuming hate in my path up the stairs, into my bedroom, and then my bathroom, where I kick the door shut. With nothing left to lose, and nothing left to hide, I grab my father’s leather shaving bag for the second time today.
My ice-cold hair, which is still wet, plasters around my face, and with nearly numb fingers, I grab my dad’s straight razor and pull it open.
Trembling.
I take in a deep breath, feeling sick to my stomach now that David knows I’ve been lying to him. I feel myself losing control, so I take it back when I dig the blade deep into a new patch of skin.
I watch as it sinks into my flesh, and suddenly, I’m a million colors of tingling remedy. Blood oozes out, thick and dark, and my lips lift in gratitude for the delight. The warmth melts my icy skin, and I drop the razor, slouching farther down until I’m lying on the floor. Molecules and atoms, every tiny fragment of me radiates, freeing me from the weight of the world. My cheek lies flat against the chilly slate floor, and I find peace in the sensation.
I drift far away to a place where nothing can touch me, suspended in blank space, the only sound coming from my slow thumping heart. I turn to my side, curl up in a ball, and close my eyes. My cell phone rings from the pocket of my wool coat that’s still wrapped around me. It’s David, I’m sure, because he’s the only one who calls me these days. I’ve lost everyone else. After what just happened at school, I’m pretty sure I’ll lose him too.
The ringing returns, another call I can’t face because I’m not ready to come back down only to be rejected.
You lied to me, Cam. I can’t be with someone I can’t trust. It’s over.
Silence returns as solace fades into the fear of sadness I’ll be forced to endure when he’s gone. Maybe I was never meant to have him. Maybe this is where I was always meant to be—alone.
Why would anyone want a soul as broken as mine?
I reach into my coat pocket to see three missed calls from David before I turn it off, close my eyes, and drift back to my dad.
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you,” my parents sing as the candles glow over my Dora the Explorer cake.
“Go on, sweetheart,” my daddy says with a great big smile on his face. “Make a wish, and blow out your candles.”
I look down at the five flames and make a silent wish to have a hundred more wishes before blowing out two cheeks full of air. They clap their hands, and my daddy takes me in his arms and lifts me up. I circle my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist.
“Can we eat it now?”
Mom laughs. “Give me a second to cut it.”
“Give me a corner piece,” he tells her, and she playfully pinches his side.
“You better be careful, old man,” she teases endearingly. “You’ll run the risk of getting love handles.”
“What are love handles, Mommy?”
Daddy flutters his fingers into my side, and I squeal as he tickles me, saying, “These are your love handles.”
“Oh, stop that,” she says. “She’s a tiny little thing.”
“Mommy, help,” I giggle while he continues to ravage me.
“She can’t save you,” he jokes, and when she sets down the cake knife, Daddy runs into the living room with me on his hip.
I laugh as she chases after us. We all fall onto the couch, winded and filled with joy. Mommy scoops me into her arms before Daddy pulls both of us into his.
“I love my girls,” he dotes, and with smiles all around, they both look at me.
“I can’t believe you’re already five years old. I wish I could freeze time and keep you little forever.”
“I wished for a hundred wishes for my birthday. You can have one of them if you want,” I offer her.
“No, sweetie,” he says. “You keep all of your wishes.”
“Keep them, and use them wisely, dear.”
“But I don’t want you to be sad about me growing.”
“It’s a happy sad,” she tells me. “But no matter what, you have to promise me that you’ll always be my baby girl.”
I smile. “I promise, Mommy.”
The doorbell rings, followed by a loud knocking, waking me from the bathroom floor. I sit up, drowsy and hazy, and then stumble to my feet. With blood crusted along my stomach, I tug my top down and close my coat around me before shutting the bathroom door behind me. When I make my way down to the front door, I shudder with a trill of anxiety when I open it to find David. He wastes no time stepping inside, pulling the door out of my hand, and closing it.
“Are you okay?”
“What are you doing?” I question, taking a step back. I’m not ready to deal with this just yet.
“I’m worried about you, and you aren’t answering my calls.”
“You can’t be here. My mom is home.”
His eyes narrow in irritation at my blatant lie.
“So what if she is? I’m just a coach checking up on one of my swimmers.”
“Just a coach?”
“Tell me why you’re avoiding my calls, Cam.”
The onslaught of sadness that begins to threaten has me unsteady, twisting my emotions into irrational anger to avoid agony. “Is that what you are, then? Just a coach? And what am I? Just a swimmer?”
He reaches out for me, but I turn away from his touch, my action only spurring his frustration with me. “You know that’s not all you are to me. You know how I feel about you. This isn’t some fucking fling for me. So, you can try all you want to push me away, but I’m not easily pushed. It won’t work. Not on me. Not when I care this much.”
He doesn’t stand around for any response, and when he starts walking upstairs, I call out, “What are you doing?”
“Which room is yours?”
Panic resurfaces, and I chase after him.
“David, stop.”
“I’m done with the lies,” he says as he heads to my parents’ room.
He peers in and then turns toward my room.
I rush to beat him, terrified he’ll see what’s on the floor of my bathroom, but he’s faster than me.
“What are you doing?”
“Where is it?” he demands as he opens and closes the drawers to my nightstand.
I grab his arm to pull him back, but he’s too strong. “Please. Just stop.”
“Show me. I want to see it.”
“See what?”
“What you need more than me,” he snaps, turning to face me with a multitude of emotions swimming in his eyes. I reach out for him again, and when my coat slips off my shoulder, and he sees the dried blood on my pants and shirt, his head falls.
“I’m sorry. I—” My words stammer as I quickly close the coat back around me.
He turns in a flash of anger and heads straight toward the bathroom door.
“David, please.” I run to pull him back, but I’m too late.
He opens it and sees the nightmare inside.
“Jesus Christ.” Horror laces his every syllable as he takes in the opened razor and small puddles of blood on the floor.
He bends down and picks up the razor, and I snap, “Don’t touch that.”
But he doesn’t listen to me as he grabs the leather case. I reach from behind him, but he blocks me.
“Where the hell did you get this?”
“Give it to me!”
“Why are you doing this to yourself?”
I swing my arm around him again, latching my hand on the corner of the bag, but he jerks it out of my grip.
“Give it back to me!”
“Dammit, Cam,” he barks. “Fucking answer me.”
“It’s my dad’s.”
He digs through it and takes out the razor case.
“You can’t do that, David!”
“Fuck if I can’t.” He sets the bag onto the counter, removes the bloody blade from the razor, and slips it in the case with the rest before tossing the now empty straight razor onto the floor.
“Those are mine,” I cry out, like a child crying out for the security of their favorite blanket.
“Not anymore.”
I throw my palms against him, yelling, “I hate you!”
“If that means no more cutting, then hate me all you want, Cam.”
I pound my hands into his shoulders and chest a few more times until he grabs my wrists and restrains me. “Calm down,” he orders, but I continue to struggle in his hold before finally giving up.
I back away, powerless against him, and watch as he shoves the razor blade case into his back pocket, and I want to cry because I feel like he’s stripping away another piece of my dad.
“When did you do this?”
“Don’t,” I respond fearfully.
He takes another look at the blood on the floor, and his shoulders slump in defeat as he walks over to the toilet and sits on top of the lid. He won’t even look at me when he repeats, “When did you do this?”
“Please, don’t be mad.”
“When?”
With his eyes downcast, I take a hard swallow, and give him the truth after so many lies. “About an hour ago.”
He lets go of a painful breath, and all I can do is stand and watch, wondering how angry he is, how grossed out he is, how much he’s regretting getting mixed up with someone like me.
Time stretches between us, slowly like a death sentence, and I just want to get it over with. So, as much as it kills me, I finally break the silence and steal the words off his tongue. “We can make this easy. I won’t cause you any problems or anything. And I . . . you don’t have to worry about me ever telling anyone about us.”
He remains unmoving as my words linger in the air, and when he finally raises his head, his eyes are red and damp.
“You think I’m ready to walk? That I would give up on you so easily?”
“I wouldn’t fault you.”
“I love you, Cam,” he states without any sign of hesitance.
I lean against the doorjamb and lower myself to the floor before admitting, “I’ve been lying to you though.”
“Yeah, you have.”
I pull my knees to my chest, and when I wrap my arms around my legs, I notice all the dried blood on my fingers. I glance to him and find him looking at it too.
“The lying stops right now.”
“You can’t ask me to make you any promises I can’t keep.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t,” I tell him. “This isn’t something I can just stop, and even if I could, I don’t want to.” My chest aches from the pain I know I’m causing him, but I can’t lie to him anymore. “And I love you. I really do, but if you expect me to stop for you, I can’t. I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it.”
He lowers himself to the floor and sits on his knees in front of me. “This scares me.”
He reaches for me, and I brace my hands on the floor when he pushes my legs down and lifts my shirt. I close my eyes and flinch away, too scared to look at him as he examines each and every scar, including the two fresh cuts from today.
“David, stop,” I whimper under my breath.
“Help me understand.” But I can’t. I don’t fully understand it myself. “Don’t tell me not to do anything to help you, because I won’t. I don’t care what you say, I’m not going to stand by and let you do this to yourself. I love you too much.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“Then let me help.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, but you need to let me try.”
The thought of giving this up doesn’t sit well with me, but I also know that, with as much as I do love him, he can’t force me to quit. I’ll go out tomorrow and buy new blades, because this is my vice. This is what keeps me safe from my anguish. Without it, I’d die from the pain inside me.
David stands and helps me to my feet. I watch as he grabs a washcloth and wets it under the faucet.
“Where are your Band-Aids?”
I point to the drawer next to the sink. “In there.”
He grabs the box and a tube of ointment before taking a seat on the edge of the tub.
“Come here,” he says, and I step between his legs.
With his eyes level to my stomach, he lifts my shirt, telling me to hold it in place. With my darkest secret exposed so boldly to him, it takes everything inside me not to cover myself. But I give him this moment he clearly needs when all I have been giving him are lies. If caring for my wounds is a way to fill his need to help me, no matter how small it seems, I won’t deny him.
He moves cautiously, cleaning the flakes of blood from my skin before rubbing the medicine over the cuts. When the Band-Aids are on, he wraps his hands around my hips and drops his head over my scars. I fight with what little strength I have left not to collapse on top of him in a storm of tears, because it’s breaking my heart to know that I’m breaking his.