Water on the Moon

Chapter 17 - But They Didn't Say It'd Be This Hard

My seventh block teacher places an orange envelope into my outstretched uneager hand. I take it and immediately put it in my backpack on the floor by my feet. I watch as the other students open their envelopes eager to view what's inside. It's report card day and I know my grades are bad.

It's been one week since I met with Ms. Dunford and Briggs in his office. Since then I haven't spoken to Briggs much, only at practice, a little about school work, but never about the self harm. I feel betrayed by him so anytime he tried to bring it up I would refuse to talk about it. I am a little mad at him, but definitely not furious. After all it was him who led me to Ms. Dunford who got me the extension on my report card.

I have put off talking to Ms. Dunford as well. I feel bad because I know she is only trying to help. Instead of talking openly and honestly like I promised that day in Briggs office with the both of them, I would make up excuses.

The bell rings and the school day is over. I take my orange-envelope-containing backpack to the bathroom where I can see my grades in private. I lock the stall, hang my bag on the hook and quickly unzip it.

I open the envelope and look at the paper inside.

Psychology: 68.

U.S. Government: 80.

Math, chemistry, and English: INC. Incomplete.

Those were the terms of my agreement with the school. Instead of failing I would get marked as 'incomplete' in those classes on my report card which would allow me extended time to make up the work I didn't do. But it means that until my grades are officially passing, I could not play basketball. I have already spent the last week making up half a semester's worth of work in those three classes. I still have half to go.

The thought of missing games is destroying me but now it's not just a thought, it's a fact. I will be missing games.

I put my hands over my face. I want to cry. I want to smash my stupid head against the white painted concrete wall until I'm unconscious on the ground, bleeding out. I want to scream and rip my hair out. I want to give up. But instead I just stand here still and silent. Holding it all in.

Until,

I frantically start searching for a razor in my backpack. I find it and without hesitation roll up my sleeve and quickly make two cuts on my arm. Not deep. But enough to draw blood. I can't play basketball so I won't be wearing short sleeves so I won't have to hide the cuts.

This doesn't feel real, this moment. I blink hard a few times while gazing at the wound I just inflicted. I feel, for a split second, regret, but that goes away as I watch the blood drip down my arm. I place the tip of the razor on my skin and push in as hard as I can take it.

Do it you fucking bitch.

Do it.

I retract the razor from my wrist, only having left a small indentation that didn't draw any blood.

I try again. Not to kill myself but to really hurt myself. I deserve to be punished, I fucked up, I put myself in this position. I slowly drag the razor on my wrist, parting my skin which will almost surely leave another scar. I don't care. It's what I deserve. I lean against the wall for support for my exhausted body.

I watch as the blood, again, drips down my arm, this time it falls to the floor leaving one single drop on the dirty white tile.

Oops.

Using the tip of my index finger I wipe the drops of blood on my wrist to keep it from dripping to the floor again. I swirl the blood on my inner wrist all over my forearm, almost like I'm finger painting. In a sick, twisted way it's satisfying to see all the blood covering half my arm.