Kyler

Chapter 2: Kyler

Fifty-seven.

Each.

I have 57 total scars on each arm. That's 114 on my arms.

People who I let close to me, they ask if it hurts. It did, I tell them, but only in the beginning. Now, it's just release. It's numbing.

Then, they ask me why.

It's not that easy to explain. Basically, I begin, I'm an underdog. Everything great that could have happened to me, happened even greater to anyone else. It's been happening since I was younger.

Imagine, I tell them, a five year old me. Your parents are still together, when everyone else is divorced. It's almost your birthday. You're turning six. That's big kid age. The week before, your sister decides to enter the world. That's great, they might say. Yeah, if it wasn't a week before your birthday. All six year old presents were put on the back burner. Of course, at six, I didn't understand the concept of self-harm. No, within those six years, enough has happened that the first five cuts weren't enough.

When I turned twelve, sixth grade, my sister started first. She skipped up to second by November. My parents asked me why I couldn't be like her. Smart. I was never. We worked our way up the school years. I entered high school. Fifteen years old. My sister was nine and in the sixth grade. She had friends, so many I couldn't keep track of them all.

By the time I turned sixteen, I added a new cut almost every other night. My maximum used to be almost a hundred, each arm. Then my sister found me out. Excuse me, she ratted me out. Told my parents. When I tried to tell them I couldn't live up to their expectations and it made me feel like s**t, they rolled their eyes.

I was a spitting image of my dad when he was my age. He was smart, and in his time, he was the coolest kid in school. He had many girlfriends, which my mother hated hearing about. My mom was also popular. But they don't understand that high school is different now. The cool kids are the ones that bully everyone, not the nice ones. Not the ones who listen to the bands I do. Not the ones who dress like I do. Not at my high school. The similarities with my parents, stop at looking like them.

They sent me to rehab. It wasn't going to help me. I learned coping skills. I'd rather cut. The metal just belonged against my skin. They wanted me to journal my feelings. I'd rather slice them right out in blood.

When I went back to school, and people found out where I was for the past month, I got teased worse. I went from being a freak to scary. If anyone did me wrong, they said about me, I'd just cut them up worse than I cut myself.

Its not true, though.

Then, this past year, my parents thought I needed God in my life. I'm sorry, but how is someone who's dead going to magically heal me? They stopped after one Sunday. As much as they want me to be, I will never, ever be like them.

* * *

Lukas was no where to be found. My guess is he skipped. Again. I wish I could get up the guts to be able to just not go to school. That's a cut. Not having the nerve to do anything. I wish I could stand up for myself, or do something.

I sat in the back of my English class. Probably the only class I could stand. We read books, talk about poetry, and free write. The laziest, easiest class I could have. Most punctual class as well. Mr. Dieter starts right as the bell rings. No later. If you come in after the bell, you're in the principals if there's no pass. Even those popular freaks, who get their way, sit in the principals with no pass. He didn't care. Then she walked in.

The bell rang too soon this morning, I never caught her name. She was as mysterious as her looks. No doubt by now the high priestess of the school had snatched her up.

To my surprise, Mr. Dieter just nodded in the direction of the seats. He was writing a list of vocab words on the board. To an even greater surprise, she sat in the open seat in front of me. Her, a girl with her looks, had to have been popular by now. It's almost an hour until the end of the day.

A girl with her looks, her type, would never sit by me.