Save Me

Curled in the fetal position, I soaked my pillow with constant tears. I was engulfed in darkness, from the black night outside, and the burnt-out light bulb inside. I clutched my ancient penguin plushie, hoping for some comfort against the hateful words rolling around in my head. I am a failure. I do nothing with my life. I am weak. I wasted my talents, and now nobody loves me. A faint voice echoes in my head, ‘But you have him and the gallery…’ but its meaning was lost. In the other side of the house, I think I heard my phone ring. The voicemail answers and I tuned out, consumed in my self-pity. I turned over in my bed, getting the dry side of the pillow damp in a few seconds. Common sense told me that this much crying was silly, but my tear-blurred vision an emotionally-flooded mind only saw my switchblade. I took it in my hand, feeling its black plastic handle, its grooves, its mechanisms, and its all-too-familiar curves before opening it to reveal the matte grey blade.  I ran my fingers over that, too, then put it to my wrist lightly. I traced a line across it, scratching the skin. I cut through the skin on the second time, the bright red blood appearing in small bubbles quickly seeping together and dripping down my forearm. It was a small relief. I went again, slowly, watching the blood rise and fall down my arm. I heard my door and stopped abruptly, now pointing the blade at my door.

          “Becca? Are you OK? Can I come in?” It was my boyfriend, ever-faithful Dave. I stashed my blade.

          “Yeah. Come in.” He opened the door wide and saw everything; the tear-stained pillow, my red and wet from crying, and my bloody arm.

          “Oh, Becca,” he chided compassionately and hugging me, apparently not caring if he got blood on him.

          “I’m so sorry,” I choked out. He stroked my hair.

          “It’s OK. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He took my knife with him to the bathroom. Dave wet a washcloth and softly dabbed the mess away. He got some Neosporin and gauze out from the medicine cabinet to wrap my arm. I honestly didn’t mind being- what others would call- babied. I needed the care now because I didn’t get it from my family. Dave truly loved me, all the time. Now I sat on the toilet seat, staring at my boyfriend washing the knife.

“I love you so much. I’m so sorry,” I blurted. He smiled at me, so warm and caring.

“I love you too.” He paused.

“Do you want to tell me why this time?” I swallowed hard, prying at my gauze.

“Mom came over. It started out well, but then…”

“It went downhill,” he finished, and I nodded.

“I don’t understand her. She has a perfect daughter. You are beautiful, smart, artistic, kind, spontaneous, and lovable. Hell, you’re 19 and you have your own art gallery exhibit!” Dave picked me up wedding-style, kissing my cheek. I wrapped my arms around his neck.

“Thank you, but I’m not perfect.”

“Perfect to me. That’s enough.” He set me down on the living room couch. I cuddled up next to him, and he put his arm around me. I turned on the TV and switched to my DVR.

“Wanna watch Jeopardy?” he asked, “You have 5 recorded.”

“Mm hmm. Anything’s fine when I’m with you.” I paused, thinking.

“Why did you decide to come here any ways?”

“Well,” Dave started, “I called because I wanted to take you out tomorrow, but you didn’t answer.”

“I heard the voicemail go off,” I admitted.

“Then I texted your cell.”

“Oh?” I replied.

“I thought you might be avoiding me, but I don’t remember a reason, so I came over. I guess I’m a little too protective.”

“No,” I said, “You’re just right.” We fell asleep to the sound of the 3^rd Jeopardy episode’s theme song.