The Smile Has Left Your Eyes

Chapter Two

Aspen

I made my way out the front door with my backpack and baseball bag hanging off my shoulders. I lumbered toward the park a couple of blocks from my house, the sun just beginning to set and the sky full of sun-kissed clouds, creating a nice, warm array of colors. Setting my stuff down next to a pole, I walked across a sandpit and placed myself on the rubber seat of a swingset.

I didn't swing, though. I didn't kick my legs or bask in the feeling of hot wind blowing through my hair. I simply sat there, staring at nothing. It wasn't hard to pass time. My mind had a way of making hours seem like seconds.

The sky had quickly shifted into a dark blue, my surroundings illuminated by streetlights. The post-sunset night sky clued me in that my parents had probably gotten home from work, meaning it was alright for me to head back.

I went through the garage, quickly throwing my dirty uniform into the wash on my way in. It was eerily quiet, making me assume that neither my parents nor brother were here. Seems like going to the park was a waste.

The door to the garage connected directly to our kitchen. I wound around the center island that mirrored the marble counter and the brown cabinets stacked beneath it, passing the dining table just feet away. The sound of television filled the empty living room, the only actual sign of human life in the pristine house. Even the long couch placed under the picture window was spotless, minus a single stain covered by the purposefully placed decorative pillows. My dad believed it was a wine stain, and I'd never bothered to correct him. Lightly stomping up the creaky staircase with a tight grip on the railing, I ignored the false images of a happy family of four garnered on the white walls. There was one in particular that always made me shiver: Alex's hand rested on my shoulder, and to any unsuspecting individual, we looked like two close brothers, but when I saw it, all I could see was the way his fingers dug into the thin fabric covering my bicep, leaving bloody nail marks across the bruise in the pressure's wake. It was his way of telling me not to let my smile slip.

Once through the long hallway on our second floor, I entered the last door, throwing all my bags on the floor of my room. I felt like getting straight into bed and passing out; I didn't know how I managed to do the things I did every day. My tank was always running on empty. School, baseball, hiding my true self, being surrounded by people that probably didn't even like me... it was a lot.

I stripped and went straight to my shower, where I spent the next hour reveling in the scalding hot water with throbbing, stinging wrists.

When I got out, I stood in front of the hulking mirror that covered the entire wall. I used my hand to wipe away the condensation, focusing on my blurred body. I hated looking at myself, yet somehow, the scars made me proud—a warped type of pride that brought about a sense of disgust and self-hatred.

I was in good shape. Great shape, even. As a catcher, squatting was practically a part of me, resulting in my thighs being thick and made of nothing but muscle. It didn't matter though. Not really. It wasn't like I could show them off; there was no one I wanted to see my bare skin beside Rafe, but after I'd mutilated myself like this, I didn't want him to see, either. The insides of my thighs were adorned with long, white, jagged marks. Some of my oldest scars. I rarely cut there anymore because it chafed against the rough fabric of my baseball pants too much. My stomach... I regretted doing it there, sometimes. And my arms, they weren't even comparable to barcodes at this point. The lighter undersides looked like they'd been through a shredder. I didn't regret that at all.

Sometimes there was this voice in my head. It wasn't my own, but at the same time, it was. It told me to do it.

End it.