James Mandarin

Eight Days

It's dark and my bed is damp: a mixture of sweat and tears. I sit up and my skin suddenly feels like ice. I'm drenched in sweat and it's freezing outside. The windows are open and I fear that at this rate, I'll get hypothermia.

I pull myself from the bed and take a thick blanket from my wardrobe, before sitting on the bedroom floor. My teeth chatter as I pull the blanket around my delicate frame.

Sitting on the floor brings back memories. Dark memories: Memories of being in the bathroom, with a razor in hand, talking to the walls. I curl my toes as I snatch them under the blanket.

I haven't cut in eight days.

Eight days.

It feels like eternity.

Eight is an even number. Mum's favourite number is eight. My birthday is on the eighth of April.

I feel I should be proud. I have, after all, come this far. I should be celebrating my achievement, by eating some cookies, or reading a book. But I don't. It's hard to feel proud when you feel hollow on the inside. It's hard to celebrate an achievement when you feel dead.

I stand up and open my school bag. Scissors lies in a dark corner, It shines in the dim blight as the bag opens. I am suddenly angry. I'm angry with myself for putting me through everything I've been through. I'm angry at the silver blades for making me feel so alive and happy. Furthermore, I hate myself for doing it.

The conversation I had with An Li comes to mind. "Do you have any scissors or razors at home? Things you could use to self-harm?"

I had shaken my head and said no. My parents, more importantly, my mother, had turned my bedroom upside down to find anything sharp, before throwing it away.

Too bad they didn't check my bag,

I take Scissors from my bag and the crumpled pieces of paper CUT BOY written on them, and make my way downstairs. Mum is a light sleeper. She has a fear of being attacked in the middle of the night and sexually assaulted. Dad has a fear of someone stealing his cheap liquor.

I open the kitchen drawer and take the matchbox. I look at the bright red and orange box for a moment, wondering what it would be like, setting fire to this god-forsaken house.

I wonder what it would be like, watching everything burn: watching me burn. Maybe then, I'll be free.

Instead, I place the matchbox in my pocket and exit the house through the front door. I make sure to lock the door behind me with the spare key. Gone are the 1950s, where families could leave their doors unlocked, without the fear of being assaulted or murdered in their homes. Edgar Allen Cooke made sure of that. He shattered the bubble of safety, as he went form house of house, killing people and stealing their cars.

My feet ache as the stones of the road lean into them. I forgot to take my sandals. I'm going to regret it in the morning.

I come to a halt at the fork in the road. If I turn left, I'll find myself on my way into town, and then, the beach. If I turn right, I'll end up on a ten-kilometre stretch of road, leading to Wickham: a small town infested by Bogans and alcoholics. I decide to turn left. I don't want to get stabbed.

I place one hand in my pocket and run my fingers across the smooth matchbox. There are places I could go: the beach, Old Joe's shop, the playground, or the flower field behind the old, rundown church.

I play a little game in my head in a bid to decide where to go next. I cross out Old Joe's shop and the playground from the list, leaving the beach and the flower field behind the old rundown church in the game. Five minutes later, the flower field behind the church, wins.

The streets are quiet and the white streetlights guide my way. I can hear the sound of the waves rolling onto the beach in the distance as I climb over the rusty fence.

When I arrive at the flower field, it's just me, once again. I strike a match and quickly make my way to the middle of the field, before the fire burns out. When the matchstick finally burns out, I put the singed wood in my pocket. I then bend down and blindly yank flowers from the earth, before arranging them into a circle on the ground. I reach into my pocket and remove the crumpled pieces of paper and scissors, and then put them on the ground.

I light the matchstick in the cold air and set the fires alight. I watch as the flowers and papers burn, twist and coil in the heat, before turning into blackened soot. I almost watch in glee, but I can't shake off the empty feeling in my chest. The fire soon dies and I still stand there, watching.

The scissors doesn't burn. It flowers brightly, almost mockingly. I wait a little longer before reaching out to touch it. Little bits of ash stick to the scissors. I frown slightly. I have two options: get rid of the scissors for good, or place it back in my pocket and return home.

Deep down, I know not to be a fool, or act like one. There's no way the scissors is coming home with me. That's never going to happen. I need to be free.

So, I begin digging. I force my hands inside the warm earth and begin moving the sand and rocks, little by little. The waves continue to crash on the shore. It's starting to get brighter. I don't have my watch with me. I should have probably taken it with me before leaving home.

I finish digging and place the scissors in its grave. I also place the charred remains of the flowers and torn pieces of paper on to of it. I don't say a word of goodbye or think of how much pain and pleasure, the scissors once inflicted on me. I wordlessly fill up the grave. Once finished, I rub the matchbox in my pocket and begin walking home.

The house is quiet when I arrive. I return the matchbox back in the drawer and pull myself under the covers.