Scarred

On his back were the scars of perfect circles made from the tip of a cigarette. I could read his history there. The abuse he had to go through almost every day. Typical little orphan boy. Foster parents hurt him regularly. But he also hurt himself. One look at his chest showed that. The scars there made the most beautiful and darkest of filigrees. It was all done with the razorblades he bought. I couldn’t understand why he did it. His life may have been bad but why would he subject himself to more abuse than necessary. But no matter how many tears fell from my eyes and onto the newest cut, he wouldn’t listen. So many times I had been tempted to tell someone what went on but I couldn’t. They’d take him from his foster parent’s house and away from me. Like most human beings, I’m selfish. I lived for the hours we spent together in my room. I’d watched him cry so many times. Watched as the tears made trails down his face that shimmered in the dim light. So many times. I’d held his hands. Wrapped my arms around him, carefully avoiding the wounds. All for nothing in return. I wanted a kind word but all I received was a pat on the back. I was the friend. She was the one he wanted. He didn’t want me. Never had. Never will. She was the object of his affection. The first person he claimed to have ever loved. That hurt me. I wished he’d loved me. If not as a lover, as a friend. She barely even spoke to him. I nursed his wounds. Listened to his stories. Comforted him as he slept.

 

He’d spent so many nights in my bed. Embracing me in a platonic embrace that killed. Whimpers came from his lips as he slept. Nightmare tormented him. I could only imagine what they were. He never revealed them to me. That was one thing he held close to his heart. I did everything I could to make him better. I wished he could be happy. Even if that meant he would be with Her and not me. I wanted him to stop the self-abuse. I wanted him to live.

 

We kissed once. He’d just woken up from a nightmare and he wrapped his arms tight around me and crashed our lips together. It took him a moment to realize who I was. One blissful moment. Then he blushed, pulled away, and apologized. He told me he thought that I was Her. Apparently he dreamt of Her. That was only one of many nights I silently cried myself to sleep.

 

 Always the good dedicated friend, I watched in the hallways as She blew him off. I watched as he stared at her in class, the longing hung over him like the funeral shroud he would wear if he kept up the way he was. I think he hurt himself because of his unrequited love. Endlessly, I tried to convince him love was a fallacy. I didn’t believe it but I’d hoped he would. He never did. He said he loved her with all his scarred heart. Loved her more than life itself. That made me chuckle. After all he didn’t seem to love life very much. He chased death eagerly. With the blade. With drugs. The only reason he seemed to stay alive was for Her. He wouldn’t even stay alive for me. If he were to die, I wouldn’t be able to go on. Don’t think me some heart broken Juliet who wanted a star-crossed romance. I wanted him to be happy. Happiness is all he needed. I wished I could make him happy but I couldn’t. Only She’d make him happy. The only time I ever saw him smile was when he was near Her. Then the smile would curl his lips and his eyes would shine with the most exquisite light ever. It was a smile that made me want to smile even though my heart was being torn raw by the blades of this horrid romance that didn’t exist.

 

I killed Her. I won’t deny it if they ask me. I’m proud of it. I did it for him. I used a knife. It was messy but I wanted Her to suffer. It takes some time to find the heart if you haven’t taken anatomy. That would have been next year. I fear I’ll never get to learn those lovely lessons. She underestimated me. Thought I was weak. Everyone always thinks I’m weak. I’m far from it. I carried the wait of his soul for a pretty long amount of time. It made me strong. I tied her up and then began my little exploration. The first time I hit her too low. The next to much to the left. She would have screamed if She hadn’t had a sock stuffed into her mouth. I’m rather surprised that she didn’t die of asphyxiation. I’m confident I got her heart but she may have just died of blood loss. Either way she was dead and that’s all I wanted. I thought he’d be able to be happy after that.

 

They found him in the typical suicide pose. In the bathtub, clothes billowing in the red tinted water. He’d slit his wrist and ankles. He must have bleed slowly to death. Like his little b***h. I was wrong to think he’d be free from Her once She died. I was wrong. Like so many things in life, he was unpredictable. And I was a fool. Now he’s dead and I’m a murderer. No longer will I comfort him in bed late at night while he cried. No longer will I sooth his night terrors. Love. The most precious thing in life often leaves one scarred.

 

Reviews

[R J Askew]

A well told piece of darkness. The short sentences work really well, as does the confessional tone. He's sad and damaged. He loves. His love is unrequited. The narrator loves him and is unrequited, wants him to be happy, but sees no way for this to happen, so brings the whole thing to a clincal close, but inadvertently destroys her own love object in the process and scars herself. Phew. A lot going on in a short span. The matter-of-fact tone of the narration is for me the best part. The detail I enjoyed most was the solitary kiss, when the love object wakes and kisses narrator mistakenly thinking her to be the other woman. Ach, neat.