Chasing Ellie

14. Blood-Injury Phobia

Darren Hannigan

I rap my knuckles against the door to Peter's room in the mid afternoon. By now mom's probably reaching the Atlantic, dad and I used to track her flights, pinning her along the map I keep folded in my room. Back before I kept it neatly tucked away.

"What?" His voice comes out sleepily through the door.

"I'm going for a run, want to come?" I ask him.

The bed creaks, his muffled groans reaching me through the wood that separates us. Peter hasn't been running much since he's been home but every time I head out I always ask. Before Peter went to college, we always did a daily run together.

I'm expecting him to say no this time too but the door swings open, messy red hair sticking up at all angles, his clothes disheveled and wrinkled from the time he's spent sleeping the day away.

"Give me five." He mutters and then the door closes in my face.

Tot greets me from where she's sprawled out on the wood floor by the front door, her head resting on one of Peter's shoes. Her tail thumps loudly against the floor and I stoop down to scratch her.

"You want to go for a run?" I ask her, my question amuses me.

The only place Tot would ever run to is the kitchen. I'm not even sure she likes the outdoors, taking to the soft carpet and the plush bed my mom replaces every so often.

I slip my feet into my running shoes, tying up the laces. An occasional scratch for Tot between my tasks as I wait for Peter. Tot stares at me with me, big brown eyes pooled to the brim with unconditional love, a smile on her jowls, tongue flopped out the side and resting on Peter's shoe.

We got Tot for Christmas one year, I was six or seven. Peter had been asking for a dog like crazy, begging my parents. We sat by the tree that Christmas morning and our dad set down a large box that wasn't wrapped rather it had the fancy design already on the package and a removable lid, the box hadn't been there in the early morning when Peter and I had woken up and crept downstairs to see what Santa had left. Peter's face was a glow with glee as he popped off the lid and reached inside for the fluffy pup with ears far too big for her body.

She wiggled and whined and lapped at him, the color of a perfectly toasted tater tot that blended into black on her back. Tater tots happened to be our favorite snack at that time, the name only seemed fitting.

Peter's feet against the floor pull me from the memory and I give Tot one last pet before I right myself.

"Wyatt's dropping off a keg in a couple hours." He tells me as way of greeting.

I watch as he stretches down for his shoes, the T-shirt he's wearing slipping up his arms slightly as he reaches. I'm not sure if I'll ever get used to it. The sight of his marred skin, angry slashes covering his biceps, a few along his wrists. The worst ones are on the insides of his thighs and his stomach. There is what seems like thousandths of them.

I know a lot of facts about cutting or rather self injury. The most common two forms being cutting, Peter's vice, and burning.  But what I don't know is why. Why did he start? At what point did he think cutting himself would help?

It's something my mind can't wrap around as much as I try to make it. I don't like pain. Or blood. The sight of blood makes me lightheaded and nauseous. I figured this phobia of sorts would have one of those terms used to describe it but no. It has no fancy name rather it's called "blood-injury phobia" and I suffer from it. Doesn't matter whose it is, if it's blood, I'm a goner.

I did ask Peter why though. He just shrugged his shoulders and looked away. So I'm still without an answer.

He clears his throat, eyes on me when I finally break away from all that he's done to himself. Our eyes meet, his hard and defiant, spine stiff like if I say something about them he might beat me.

I'm not going to say anything. I don't know what to say.

"How many miles?" I ask instead, stepping around him for the door.

He follows me out, the air brisk, the dampness of winter approaching hanging around us. The trees have lost all their leaves, the ground spotted with them in various stages of decay. One neighbor already has their Christmas lights out even though it's not quite Halloween.

"I don't know. Three." He says.

I nod, even though I'm fairly certain he'll change his mind once we get going. Peter always shot low at the beginning, the two of us hitting our goal before he'd always decide we should go longer. It's his competitiveness. If it seemed like I was having an easy go at the run he'd try and run me out. All it did was make me fitter.

We fall into a jog as we head down the sidewalk, away from our home. Side by side like we haven't missed weeks on top of months of this moment in our routine. Our feet beat the ground at the same tempo, the two of us matching each other's strides, uniform and in sync.

We run in silence, just the sound of our shoes scraping against the cement and our labored breathing as our lungs fight to keep our bodies filled with oxygen.

At least that is until I say "I heard Wes Thompson might be at the party."

Peter glances at me but I keep my focus straight ahead.

"No way."

I nod. We round a corner in the subdivision we live in, the main road in sight. I get sick of running the same route, bored at seeing the same houses with the same lawns. Passing by the same vehicles on the same streets. I want to run in new places, see new things.

"I'll believe it when I see it." Peter says after a moment.

Part of me agrees. I'm skeptical that Wes will come. But I'm also hopeful. Because if Wes comes then so will his best friend Brett and if they come than Savannah and Ellie will come.

And there's nothing I want more than for Ellie Hope to be at my house.