John cuts himself

John cuts himself. It is an impulse control disorder; he doesn’t want to, but something inside of John wants him to. It has nothing to do with wanting to die, or needing attention, it is strictly a thing he does which keeps him sane, brings him comfort, like meditation or smoking. Things that make John want to cut himself include large crowds, the spelling bee in the third grade, the future, the girl with the glasses who moved away in the fifth grade, tests, his ACT scores, being late, eating alone, meeting new people and parallel parking, just to name a few. 

John wore his new navy blue sweatshirt to his first college class, beginning computing, CS 101. His mother had purchased it for him at the beginning of the summer, on sale, because it was one of their school colors, and she had a compulsive fear that he would freeze to death while he was away at school, judging by all the blankets and extra thick socks and the space heater she had bought for him to take with him. John liked the sweatshirt because it was one of the few things in his wardrobe that had never been worn inside his high school and it had a vintage-y fadedness that made it look distinguished and grownup to him. He was beginning to regret this decision, though, because, although it was cold outside, the ancient, humming, buzzing computers that filled the cramped little classroom made it unbearably hot. The room was about full, and the clock read 11:05, so the teacher shut the door and began to pass out the syllabus. Fifteen minutes passed and John decided that Mr. Crabb had no intention of passing out anymore handouts and since he was sitting in the back corner and no one had taken the computer next to him John decided he could probably risk taking off his sweatshirt. As he lifted it off over his head, though, Emma Jones walked into the room and quickly took the first empty seat she saw, beside John. 

Emma ignored John until they were given their first assignment, then she turned to him and smiled, “Do you have any idea what he just said?”

John shrugged, “Maybe” For the next forty minutes the two of them worked through the assignment together. Near the end of the class, though, John leaned out of his chair to point to something on Emma’s screen and she noticed, for the first time, the thick dark lines on his wrist. 

“What happened to your arm?”

John pulled his arm back, jolted. “Nothing.”

The last twenty minutes of class were passed in relative silence.

“Do you have another class today?”

“Nope.”

“Do you wanna’ go to lunch?” Emma offered as they walked shoulder to shoulder through the hall. 

“Sure.”

The cafeteria was crowded, but John and Emma managed to find a table in the back, by the windows. Emma made herself a salad and John got pizza. The two of them exchanged majors, hometowns and class schedules before discovering that they lived on the same floor of the same residence hall. So when they had finished eating and deposited their plates on the grimy conveyor belt they walked back together. 

“So, what are you gonna’ do with your biology major?”

Emma shrugged, “Can’t say I know yet. What about you?” 

“I have no idea.” John laughed, “I kinda’ just want to write text books.”

“That’s cool,” Emma said, swiping the two of them into the dormitory. “Our history books sucked at my school.”

“Ours too. I don’t really know if it’s a safe bet, though, you know.”

She nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.”

They climbed two flights of stairs and Emma followed John down the hall to his room. He unlocked the door and invited her inside. As the smalltalk slowly gave way to silence John had settled on his bed and Emma was sitting in his desk chair. She reached for his arm and held it, in spite of his clenched fist. 

“So you did this yourself?” Her voice was low, grave.

John’s chest tightened, he dodged eye contact, but nodded. 

“Why?”

John shrugged. This is a good way to make friends, he thought to himself. Back to being the weird kid with the scars I guess.

“You should stop.” 

John felt the heat of his blood in his face. “I. . . Can’t.” That was the truth. It had been almost three years since he started. It was a habit now. He tried to stop, once. What followed was a week of stress and sleep loss and lack of motivation which he had no interest in reliving. 

“I could tell the RA.” 

John flinched and Emma caught his eyes for a moment. She was serious. She reminded him of the stone angel statue that had been in his grandmother’s garden, glaring sternly at humanity’s flaws and imperfection. 

“Please don’t.” For the three years that John had been taking blade to skin he had been living in constant fear of being caught, which in his mind could mean only one thing, getting sent to an institution like Peach Tree Hill. He had heard too many stories about Peach Tree Hill to risk telling anyone. When people inevitably did find out, he swore them to secrecy, worked hard to convince the guidance counselor that there was no need to call his parents. 

“You should try, at least, to stop I mean.” That wasn’t a suggestion. 

John glanced up at her again, her eyes were softer now, kind, and the light falling on the side of her face and her honey-blond hair made her look like a different kind of angel.

“Maybe I just need something to take my mind off it.” John knew this was a bad idea. A little voice in the back of his head kept saying don’t lie, don’t make promises you can’t keep, don’t open up to people you hardly know. . . But he ignored it all.

Emma’s eyes lit up. “Perfect,” She took a purple pen out of her bag, “I’m in room 206,” She scribbled the number on his arm, “So you can just come talk to me, and I will be your distraction.” 

She let go of his arm and he held it close to himself, but carefully so he didn’t smear the ink. 

“I should probably get going, I have math at two.” She collected her things, “I’ll see you later, though, John.”

John watched her leave, in a daze, then laid back on his bed to take a moment to process everything. He spent the next hour staring at the digits on his arm, the only proof that she wasn’t some kind of hallucination brought on by lack of sleep or a mirage made of spun sugar that disintegrated as soon as he turned his back. 

Author's Note

I'm gonna' call this chapter one, even though the document on my computer isn't divided that way. I haven't looked at it in a while, but I got the urge to upload it just now so I am.