An Ice Cream Understanding

I can’t feel anything anymore. There is no joy, no sorrow, nothing. But somehow everything hurts. I don’t understand it. I need something definite. That’s what the knife is for. I understand that feeling. I understand why it hurts when I slice into the skin. It’s physical pain. I can control it. I can control how deep, how long, and how much it will sting. I like it when they bleed. What should I do today? A word? A picture? Oh, I know! One cut until I reach my age.

One cut.

No one ever notices the lines.

Two cuts.

No one would care even if they did.

Three cuts.

It’s because no one cares about me.

Four cuts.

My parents ignore me and tell me to go away.

Five cuts.

I don’t think they love me.

Six cuts.

The handle to the bathroom door turns. I freeze, staring at the shiny metal handle. Mom and Dad aren’t supposed to be home. Who’s home? I don’t have time to hide the knife. I don’t have time to roll down my sleeves. The door creaks open. My heart is pounding. My stomach is flip flopping.

Kayla walks into the bathroom. “Oh, sorry sis. I didn’t…what are you doing?”

I look down at my arm. There are only six cuts. I’m not going to be able to finish. Kayla will yell at me. Then she’ll tell Mom and Dad. They’ll yell at me too. They won’t get it. This is the only feeling I understand.

“This is the only feeling I understand,” I whisper.

Silence.

I don’t know how long it lasts. But it feels like forever. Kayla sighs. Then she starts to do something. I look up at her, though I don’t meet her eyes. She shuts the bathroom door. Then she turns and pulls down her leggings.

There are lots of angry looking lines on her thighs. Some are small. Some have healed and scarred. Some spell out words. Fat. Ugly. Worthless. There’s a fresh word on one of her legs. It’s tiny. I squint to see it better.

Whore.

I look up at her, but she looks away in shame.

“What does whore mean?” I ask quietly.

She still doesn’t look at me. “It’s what I’ve become. It’s a feeling I understand. You’ll get what it means in a few years.”

Maybe Kayla understands. I pat the floor beside me.

“When did you start?” she asks in a soft voice, sitting down beside me.

“Couple months ago.”

She pushes my hair out of my face gently. “I started when I was your age, too."

I want to finish my cuts. I’m almost done. But I don’t know if she’ll let me.

“Is it okay if I finish? I’m almost done,” I ask, bracing myself for her response. She stares into my eyes for a moment. She’s going to say no. She’s going to tell me to stop.

“Okay.”

She said okay. She does understand. I position the knife carefully next to the previous cut and push firmly down.

Seven.

Maybe I’m not completely alone. “I like it when they bleed a lot,” I say.

Eight.

Maybe Kayla does care about me. “Me too,” she says.

Nine.

“I love you,” Kayla whispers as I finish my final cut. I look up at her and see tears brimming in her eyes.

“You’re seventeen now. Does it ever get better?” I ask, feeling little drops in the corner of mine.

Kayla shakes her head sadly. “I wish I could tell you it does.”

I crawl into her lap, and she wraps her arms around me tightly. We sit, crying silently. Neither of us can stand loud noises. I forgot that earlier. She never yells at me. She’s the only one. Kayla strokes my hair gently, and I feel her body shaking slightly. Mine is shaking too. Everything is quiet. And for the first time in a long time, I feel something else. I feel safe.

Kayla breaks the silence. “Wanna go get some ice-cream?”

I look up at her tear-stained face and give her a watery smile. “Yeah.”