6:40 am – Olivia Edwards
6.40 am
It’s time.
I must have dozed off before dinner. I was in the wrong bed. My sister was next to me, asleep. The lights were off and the sky was dark. It was 2 am. I was wide awake. This was my chance.
—
Here I am, sitting in my car. I’m trying to balance alcohol wipes and tissues on the dashboard. I’d rather do this in the dorm, but my roommate is home. Tough luck, I guess.
—
There wasn’t much left to gather. I had hidden the rubbing alcohol under my bed a few weeks ago. My pocket knife was ready, but I decided to sneak into the kitchen and steal the sharpener anyway. I couldn’t be too careful. This had to work. I only had one shot. For once in my life, I was going to take action. No more innocence. No more perfection. I was going to prove to myself I wasn’t a fake. Wait. That wasn’t the plan. I needed to prove I was a fake. I couldn’t do something like this. It wasn’t me. I wouldn’t be able to go through with this, right?
—
I could call a friend. I’m supposed to call a friend. But why bother her with my bullshit, right? I never need so much as a steri-strip. God, I’m a fake.
—
Soap. I needed soap. Water, too, and tissues. I had everything I could think of. Where to do it? In my room? I imagined someone waking up, walking in on me.
Oh, God.
The closet—the bottom drawer of my dresser was empty.
Perfect. Ready. Okay, ready.
—
I’m using an exacto blade. They scare me less than razors. I keep trailing the point up and down my arm. Am I really hesitating? After all that fuss, after finally caving in, now I’m not going to do it? Fuck, this back-n-forth shit is worse than relapsing.
—
I thought I was going to use my feet. I changed my mind after realizing how sensitive they were, how many nerves were wrapped around those delicate tendons and bones. I felt sick. Good. That’s how I was supposed to feel. But where else could I do it? I couldn’t let anyone see. They would think it was a joke. They would laugh at my “edginess” like they had laughed at my music. And why shouldn’t they? It was hilarious. An adorable, Christian girl, listening to trashy sex-filled songs. A big joke.
—
Do I want to do this? No. I move the blade away—shit!
I have to, I have to. It pricks my skin—no!
I don’t. I don’t.
—
Thighs. What about my thighs? I pulled myself out of place for a moment. I found my shortest pair of shorts and held them to my waist. I had started wearing them that summer. I used to think they were too revealing. Of course, no one cared I was showing more skin. I was still too childish for them. Too boring. Too prudish. I never did anything interesting, not to them. I didn’t put out. I didn’t even swear. Wasn’t that cute? A high school senior with the vocabulary of saint! At least I made them smile when their real friends weren’t around. I slid my pants down. My legs were shaved smooth. I sat, shivering, on the floor. I wasn’t cold— just terrified. My skin lay out in front of me. Another blank sheet. I grasped the sharpener in my left hand. My dad taught me how to sharpen this pocket knife the day he gave it to me.
—
What’s wrong with me, why can’t I do it? Why can’t I go back inside and forget it? I’m pressing my palms on the steering wheel, grinding my teeth, chewing my lip. How could not hurting hurt so much?
—
Enough. I had to do it now. It was 6:40 am on a Sunday. My family would be awake soon. The blade hovered over my leg. All knowledge of how to use knives vanished from my mind. Was I supposed to just…press down? Was that it? The metal was ice cold. My skin depressed, then sprang back. Nothing.
—
Maybe I wouldn’t want to do it if I could cry. That’s all I want, really. I need this writhing, clawing thing in my chest to tear itself out. It never does, though. It just screams and scratches my insides, begging, demanding release. It wants this. I don’t.
—
Something was tugging at my body. I was falling back, back into the dark corners of my mind. My flesh seemed to evaporate, floating away and leaving me naked and alone. I was going to faint. No, I couldn’t. Not now. Breathe. Breathe.
Maybe I needed to get used to it first. I brushed the knife against my leg, using no pressure. I scraped my skin. Dead cells clung to the blade. I was made of snow.
—
My phone is in the other seat. One text, that’s all I need. Why does it hurt to pick it up, to put the blade down? I don’t think I can do this.
—
I pressed down. Harder, harder. Nothing. What was I missing? What was the last step? I thought about slicing apples. Take the knife, press down, and—
PULL.
Nothing, right?
No.
Something.
A dot. Two dots. Three.
The sun was rising.
Oh, God. The sun was rising.