Thicker Than Paper

Disappointment-Warning

Ugly and sick. Restricting and worrying. Pushes you down, down, down. Frustrating. I drop the crane in the water, wishing it never felt like this. Wishing I could brush it all away. Wishing I never had to worry about this. Wishing I'm good enough. I kick the water, spraying it everywhere. The crane bobs unsettlingly on the water. I cry in the car.

~~~

"What?" Ace seems highly surprised by my question; about if he had a lighter I could borrow. 

"Is that a no?" We're in weights right now. I watch Ace's face screw up in the mirror that covers the entire wall as he does weighted squats. 

"Why? Why do you, of all people need a lighter?" He asks after he drops the weight to the ground. 

I pick it up and enter a squat position, "'Of all people' what's that suppose to mean?"

"Phoenix, bro, you are like one of the most innocent people I know. You've never done any drug unless you were surrounded by people. You only really drink when offered. I mean you used to do that. Hell, you scold me for vaping in your car! What, in gods name, could you need a lighter for?"

I scowl at him through the mirror, doing another squat. Was I really like this? This good little kid everyone looks down on. God, what have they protected me from all these years? I mean, there's been multiple times people have offered me other things than weed, and I always declined. Ace has told me wacky stories of the times he's done like shrooms or something.

 Did they really think I'm so innocent? I almost want to show him the cuts on my hips, the ones that have been multiplying every night. I almost want to tell him how I used to have a crush on him-thank god that went away. Or tell him all the thoughts I have. All the sick, sad thoughts. I almost want to tell him everything. But I don't. Because I can't.

"Okay, look," I set down the weight, "There's this girl I've been talking to. She's coming over tonight and we're going to...do some things. She's bringing the drugs, I bring the lighter. It's our agreement." I shrug, and pick up my water bottle and take a big chug, pushing my hair back to wipe the sweat on my forehead. The weights room is always warm. To warm for a comfort. 

When I look back at Ace, his eyes are wide, but he has a smile on his face. "Wow, who is this girl that has convinced baby Phoenix to experiment?" I nearly snort.

The fact he uses the word 'experiment', got me the most. If he knew who I've 'experimented' with he probably wouldn't use that word anymore.

"Well, one: you are never going to meet her. If there's any chance of being a more then one-time thing, she is never meeting any of you," Techanlly it's not a lie. No ones meeting anyone. Because, frankly, there was no one for Ace to meet, "And two, I am not a baby. So fuck off. But also give me a lighter."

Ace laughs, a good laugh, and slaps me on the back. I push his hand away and he laughs more, "Yeah, okay. Okay, I'll give you lighter when we change out. I'm proud of you, Phoenix, I truly am." It's sad he's proud of me when I', doing something that isn't really me, isn't it? Nevertheless, I accept his praise. 

~~~

My mother noticed the first one two days after I sliced it into my skin. I was chewing a bite of my granola bar, dumping my pills into my hand. She took a sip of her coffee, looking at my wrist over her mug. I toss my pills in my mouth with a swig of water.

"How'd you get that scratch?" she nods to the red little line on my arm. 

I glance down at it, acting as if I had no idea it was there, "What? Oh, I don't know. I must have done it in my sleep. It doesn't hurt." I shrug to really seal the deal. She nods, taking another sip of her coffee, "Hey, mom? Could you pick me up a refill of the anti-depressant?"

She nods again and I leave the kitchen. She hasn't talked about it since. A relief on my shoulders. My mom has depression like me. She got it in her late twenties, just before she got pregnant with my sister, Sarah. And, of course, with depression comes anxiety. I guess I may not look much like her, but we defiantly still have a lot in common.

Now, nearly four whole days later, that one cut on my wrist has multiplied to ten on my hips, and three on my feet. When the blade breaks the skin, and I get that feeling. The pain, I need more. When I see the blood, I wonder how much blood I could get out of another cut. So I do it again. And again. I do it two or three times a night. And when I can't fall asleep, I rub my fingers over the ones that have begun to scab. 

But I want to feel he skin ridge. A scar to remind me how it feels to feel. I read online, that a hot knife or brand is best for a good brand or scar. That's why I need the lighter. Not for drugs with some random girl. But to cut and burn my skin. I have also learned crafting knives work better than scissors because I can cut at any angle. 

I hold the knife a couple inches away from the flame, so the blade doesn't get too hot. I want to feel pain, but I don't want to burn alive. I wave the lighter around underneath it, feeling the warmth on my fingers. Good. I shut the lighter and place the knife in the crook of my elbow. hot. Burning. At first its a shock, I pull away. But when I realize the knife has probably cooled. I press it down again. 

I set down the knife on my desk, starring at the burning cut. I lick my lips, wondering how they aren't chapped. I see the lighter, resting so innocently on my desk. I feel the burn on my arm. The lighter, ironically enough, feels cool to the touch. I click it on, starring at the flame. A flame could do so much damage. I lift up my shirt with my other hand and lower the lighter until I feel the heat on my side. I put it a little closer. 

I pull the flame away quickly. It feels different than a burn. And don't know how, or what, but I kind of like it. Not as much as the cutting, but close. I get up and head to the shower, running cold water to help the burns keep from getting infected. I lean my forehead against the shower tile, letting the streams of water pound on my back. 

If my mom knew about this, she would have a heart attack. She would cry and have an emotional breakdown. She would be so fucking disappointed in me. I don't care about anyone else really knowing about it. I don't hide it when I'm at school or with friends. I'll tell anyone who asks about it. Not that they ever do. Just her. I don't want to disgust her. Disappoint her.

My breath hitches in my throat. It feels tight and suffocating. My lungs burn. My head stabs sharp. I suck in my lips, trying to hold it in.  It breaks through. My body rocks with the sobs. I pound my hand on the wall. My eyes burn from the tears. 

This isn't the type of pain I want to feel. I don't want to feel it all over. I don't want to feel it.