I met her when she was only fourteen. I was nineteen. It was at a party – she was self-confident, unstoppable, radiant, lively, witty, sexy… so much, that I estimated her to be two years my junior. When she flirted with me, I flirted back. I was later astonished to discover that she was only in 9th grade, whilst I’d graduated from high school a year ago. As perverted as I felt at times, I couldn’t stay away from her. She had so much intensity; it was hard not to get sucked into her world. Which is exactly what it was – I was well aware of the fact that we were all just pawns in her master plan.
Two years later, we were inseparable. I was with her before school, during her lunch break, and after school, until her mom kicked me out of their house at 11 PM. She even coerced me into letting her skip school and writing a fake note, which happened many times, because I never said no to her. It was all perfect until she decided to visit my house. She didn’t give a warning – I’m not even sure how she found my house, because I never invited her over. But she did, and she saw me. She saw me bleeding in my bathroom. She saw me, and her face grew horrified, then she threw up in the entrance of the bathroom. She thought I was dead, and she started crying. Then she saw I was the one holding the knife… I hadn’t been attacked by somebody… I had attacked myself. She grew hysterical. She fainted in the doorway, but she was still conscious, her wide, innocent eyes taking in everything. I moved towards her, trying to comfort her, but she pushed me away and just stared. She just stared at me.
After that, everything changed. She made it her personal mission to cure me. She was certain that I wouldn’t do it anymore. She didn’t understand. I was addicted. To multiple things. I was addicted to pain: to the high it gave me, to the stomach turning feeling when it subsided. And I was addicted to her. No matter how hard I tried, I continued to come back to her.
She changed. She was now painfully self-conscious, skipping meals to lose weight. She was despondent, never speaking unless forced to. She was dull, her skin turned as gray as her mood. She was dispirited, never leaving the house except for school. She was unamusing, not making a joke unless it was to pretend that she was fine. She was still beautiful, but in a sad sense. As if she was hollow inside. I pretended not to notice. I continued to visit her, even if it was just to watch her breathe. Most of the time, we didn’t talk at all. I also continued to cut. My legs were ruined by how many scars they carried, I would soon have to move onto my arms. Every time it would be the same… I would go for a month without cutting, she would hope, I would crush them, often by her coming home from school and finding me in her bathroom, lying on the floor with a kitchen knife beside me. She would cry, she’d say it’s over, then she’d cry as I was shaking. She would then turn around with a towel, and clean me up. It was this way for a long time… until she did something I never thought would happen, told me of thoughts that I thought were only mine. That was the trigger. As she was sleeping, I realized I couldn’t continue hurting her like this.
So I decided to leave. I would leave her, to go get help, far away from her. Maybe in a year or two I could come back, and we could have our hopes, our dreams, and our future. But for now, I watched her sleep. It’s quite calming, you know, watching the person you love most sleep.
©2009 ~Sannex7
