The Real Scömìche

Mitch

"It was around two months after I came out. You remember how much they hated me for who I was, how they would push me and kick me and hurt me. I started to believe all the horrible things the others were saying: that I was nothing, worthless, useless. One day I came to school and I noticed that everyone was staring at me. I tried to look for you or Kirst but it seemed like you'd both Disapparated. I turned the corner and they'd painted my locker with the word 'fag' over and over, all in black. I just turned round and legged it out of that place until I was far enough away. Remember that day I called you in calculus to come and get me from outside a carpet warehouse? Well that was the day I started to cut my wrists. The guys continued to torment me, and the number of scars just kept growing. I started to always wear jackets and long sleeved tops. Then sometime in May, the final straw was pulled and I don't think that I fully realised what I was doing but just couldn't take it anymore. I-I tried to kill myself." I could feel the tears in my eyes. "I tried to hang myself. My dad found me before my pulse stopped but he told me he thought I'd died. I asked him to keep it a secret and I didn't even tell you or Kirst, though she figured it out. I begged her not to tell you, because I didn't think you'd ever like me if you found out. I didn't want your pity. Scott, I..."

I stopped talking as Scott lifted the sleeves of my top to reveal faint lines crisscrossing on my wrists. He took a sharp breath, his finger running over the old cuts. Suddenly, he grabbed a jacket and rushed out of the door. Crap. I'd scared him away. Tears ran down my cheeks as I rested my head in my hands. "I love you, Scott."

Scott didn't return for two days. I didn't know where he'd gone or why, but I missed him. Something was wrong. I could tell. When he came back and I hugged him, he barely responded. He refused to kiss me back and he went off by himself. I sat on his bed as he slept, watching him frown as he dreamt. I gently held his hand. He squeezed my fingers subconsciously, pulling me next to him and hugging me tightly. I relaxed in his arms, trying to ignore the pain and memories woven in his shoulder, and the hurt and reminders in my wrists.

I was unsettled by the sudden distance between us, my mind wandering to terrible places. Places I hadn't visited in years. I asked Scott if my past was a problem, but he vaguely assured me it wasn't. I stood in front of my mirror wondering if it was something I said, or something I did, or if Scott just didn't like my aesthetic. That must be it. I'd obviously put on weight recently and Scott deserved a thinner, sexier partner. What if he was cheating on me? He could have already found a thinner, sexier version of me. I grabbed my gym bag from the corner of my room, swinging it on my back, shutting the door quietly. I ignored the craving for coffee as I walked past Starbucks, turning the corner to see the ugly grey building. I spent almost my whole day there, consuming only healthy smoothies. As I left, I checked the mirrored wall. I didn't look any different. To say it was frustrating didn't begin to describe it.