The Real Scömìche

Mitch

My eyelids felt heavy as I awoke from my light slumber. It was not a pleasant night. I tossed and turned until around 2am and woke again at about 4:30. As hard as I tried, I couldn't get Kirstie's voice out of my head. I never knew about her eating disorder and I felt like shit. I might just be the worst best friend a girl could have. Crap. How did I not notice? Am I completely oblivious to the world around me? Or am I just the shittiest person to walk the planet? So much for God makes no mistakes...

My eyes roamed around the room. Scott was stuck in a deep sleep but Kirst looked like she had died. She obviously hadn't slept at all. She had mascara panda eyes, lipstick smudges and her hair was wild. Her clothes were creased and she wore the same ensemble as the day before; she hadn't even left my bedside. "Kirst?" I whispered softly. "Girl, you look terrible. Seriously, go brush your hair, change. I'll be fine, baby." She weakly whispered her protests as she grabbed someone's overnight bag and shut the door. I closed my weary eyes and slipped into a light sleep.

Fifteen year old Kirstin Maldonado stood in the bathroom on the scales. Her rib cage almost split her skin it was so sharp. Her eyes were tired and she had purple bags beneath them. She ran her bony fingers over the nothingness that was her waist. She was pale and bruised. It looked like she might snap in half with every sigh.

Ten year old Kirstin Maldonado sat with her beautiful sister, running her fingers over the scars on her sibling's wrists. Kayleigh's tanned Hispanic skin was tainted with blue bruises and pink scars, and her dainty hand was in her pocket, secretly clutching a sharp blade. For some reason, the pain made her feel better, like her problems were dripping away with the blood, even if it was only a high for a minute.

Forty-something Sebastián Maldonado, father of two, sitting in his old worn armchair, a bottle of vodka in one hand and the strong Irish whisky, usually reserved for small amounts on special occasions, in the other. His words were slurred as he yelled at his eldest daughter. He took his minor problems out on her. When intoxicated, he convinced himself that his Kayleigh ruined his life, marriage and livelihood. She was scarred and bruised all over. When he screamed at her to get out, she silently pulled out her small knife and created another small slit in her skin.

Nineteen year old Scott Hoying curled up in a ball beneath the ripped, thin sheets from his bed, after he had been left alone. Scott shook as he reluctantly recalled the last hour, when his boyfriend had raped him and physically abused him before smugly walking out like he owned the world. Silent tears fell down his cheeks.

I suddenly woke up, almost screaming. It was just a bad dream. A bad, bad dream. I shakily ran my fingers through my hair. Kirstie took my hand and squeezed it, unconvincingly reassuring. "Hey, Mitchie?"

"Yeah?"

"You know yesterday we were talking...?"

"Spit it out Kirstin." I surprised my self with the sharpness of my tone.

"Why are you actually in here?" I sighed and looked into her eyes.

"You cannot tell Scott..."

"My lips are sealed." She mimed zipping her lips and throwing away the key.

"I fainted from blood loss."

"Oh Mitch..."

"Stop it Kirst. I don't want your pity. It wasn't entirely an accident ("What?!"). I just let my mind wander to that place again." There was silence for what seemed like hours.

"Why'd you start cutting again, Mitch baby?" I could tell she was trying to soften the harsh question.

"I... I, er, got paranoid I was going to lose Scott. I kept thinking that if I... passed away... no one would miss me. I know now that I'm wrong."

"Oh baby..." I tried not to look into Kirstie's eyes as she swept me up in a bear hug, holding me as tightly as a boa constrictor.