| I was walking down the street one day with this guy, a friend of mine. He must have said something funny because I was laughing. He smiled in approval, happy that he had made me laugh, then leaned over and kissed me. Neither one of us was expecting that kiss, and when our lips parted we both froze, our faces inches apart. I think he waiting for me to slap him or something. But I only smiled, and then I stood up on the tips of my toes and touched his lips again with mine. The next thing I knew, I was lying in bed with a dingy crocheted afghan twisted around my body. I blinked my eyes several times as the sun speared through the window and stretched my arms languidly. I rolled over, and I think that I honestly expected to see his face there next to me, still smiling. But all that was there was a wall that had been painted eggshell or ecru or one of those other shades that just looks like a dirty white. I didn't realize I'd been smiling until I felt my face fall. I know it's silly, but I felt tears pricking at my eyyes and flowing silently down my nose. I've had this dream every night for a week, and it never stops seeming real until that moment when I roll over and am greeted only by a dirty, speckled wallboard. My roommate rolled over and mumbled something from under her pillow, and I realized my alarm clock was beeping. I turned it off and laid on my back for a moment trying to recapture that feeling in my chest, in the pit of my stomach, that I had felt as I stared into that guy's eyes. But it was gone. I sighed, threw back my bedclothes, and went to take a shower. My roommate was awake when I got out of the bathroom, so I quickly tugged the sleeves of my bathrobe down over my wrists. She headed into the bathroom herself, I guess to brush her teeth, and I dressed quickly, before she could see me. It was ninety degrees outside, but I pulled on a long-sleeved shirt. A tank top would have been more sensible, I suppose, but I had to hide the scars. My arms were covered with them, a meshwork of thin, brown lines that I had carved myself. The night before, in another fit of despair, I had added to the design, and now sported another dozen or so inflamed incisions that glared at me from the pale white skin of my forearms. Here, in the world of the waking, there isn't a smiling face to give unexpected yet welcome kisses. There isn't anything, really. There's this guy I know, a friend of mine. He's a writer, one of those types that quotes Virgil and Hemingway and Bly in normal conversation. If you were to write down the epitome of a student of literature, it would describe him perfectly. He's got a real brooding air about him all the time, like he's writing poetry in his head and doesn't want to be disturbed. I used to be intimidated by him, because he seemed so above me...the kind of guy that is actually aware of all the beauty in the world around him. I still am sometimes. He's a romantic too, if you can believe it, the kind you don't see very often anymore in this age of feminism and technology. I bet that in his daydreams he fancies himself to be one of those old Victorian heroes, like Mr. Darcy. I really like that in a guy. We were talking this morning, about music and books and papers that we had to write. About halfway through the conversation I realizes that I had stopped listening to him and was instead studying the contours of his face. His eyes were incredibly bright, and it's strange that I don't remember what color they were. He hadn't shaved in a few days, and he had this light reddish brownish stubble all over his face and chin. It's actually several shades lighter than his hair, which is a dark brown and is always sticking up in weird places, wild, because he's not shallow enough to care what he looks like. He was still talking, very animated about something, and I noticed that his face is very expressive. It crinkled and stretched and folded into all kinds of expressions that I didn't think I'd ever seen before. My eyes traveled down his body as he continued to speak. He's very slender for a man, and still looked rather boyish in faded jeans and a plain white t-shirt. I could see his biceps though, faintly defined under his lightly freckled skin. His hands amazed me. I tried to take my eyes off them, but I was afraid to look at his face again because it was so beautiful. He had calluses on his fingers, and I bet if I looked more closely I'd find ink stains on his fingertips from years of leaky pens. Or maybe he likes to write in pencil. He asked me a question. My eyes found his quickly and I tried not to look guilty, like he had just caught me doing something that I shouldn't have been. "Yes, of course," I said, nodding, and made some obscure, questioning remark about a novel we read a week ago in one of out literature classes. He smiled faintly, curiously, and continued. I don't even remember what we were talking about any more. But there's this picture burned in my mind of his profile, unshaven and animated, turning towards me suddenly and looking into my eyes. It seemed like he was staring into my soul. And now it's evening; the sun just set a few minutes ago and night is beginning to settle over our small little town. I've been walking the cobblestone streets because I don't know where else to go. It's warm, so I push the sleeves of my shirt up past my elbows, exposing old scars, healing wounds, and half a dozen fresh slashes still spilling blood that runs slowly down toward my wrists. Suddenly, I hear a voice. It sounds like it's coming out of a fog, because it's very faint, but it gets clearer as I focus on it. "Erin! Erin!" My friend the writer is jogging towards me, waving. He is carrying a battered paperback. I think he has just left the local coffeehouse, only a block away, where he spends hours each week lost in a sea of cappuccino and philosophy. He halts uncomfortably when he is a few steps away because he sees my trembling, tear-stained face and realizes that he has walked into more than he bargained for. I try to force a smile, but only half succeed. "Hi, Richard." I back away quickly, giving him the opportunity to make a polite exit, stage left. Something flashes painfully in his eyes, like a nightmare flickering across his memory. He shoves the paperback in his back pocket, and for the first time I notice the faint white lines that run down his wrists, barely discernible after so many years, but in a pattern that I know all too well. Erin..." His voiced has dropped to almost a whisper, and he reaches out for me as I walk away. His fingers brush my shoulder, and attempt to grasp my upper arm, but I recoil, jerking away from him reflexively. He jumps after me, stepping into my path. I don't know what else to do, so I stop and stare at the ground as tears run down my face and blood runs down my arms. He reaches out to me again, more slowly this time, more gently. His hand touches my chin, tilts my face upwards towards his, and his callused fingers run across my cheek. Then, without speaking, he touches my arm, runs his hand across it, stains his fingers with my blood. He doesn't shudder like I thought he would. He just wipes the blood away tenderly, stroking his thumb across the open cuts. I finally look at his face and can see that his eyes are filled with tears. Our gaze meets, and as his eyes spill over onto his unshaven cheeks, I choke back a sob that racks my body because I know that he understands. My friend the writer, with all of his beauty and poetry, understands. Because the world that I live in was his world too, and in a split second I realize that I am no longer alone. I fall into him, flinging my arms around his shoulders, staining his white t-shirt with blood, and I cry into his chest. I can feel him breathe. His hands are stroking my hair, and slowly my tears of despair disappear and I begin to sob with relief. Eventually, we pull away from each other and he begins to lead me down the dark road. We have almost reached the old park, with its overgrown grass and rusting swingset, when he turns to me with a rueful smile. "I know you want to go to medical school, Erin, but even the best doctors don't try to perform surgery on themselves." In spite of myself, I begin to laugh. He smiles in approval, happy that he has made me laugh, and leans over and kisses me. Neither one of us is expecting that kiss, and when our lips part we both freeze, our faces inches apart, staring into each other's eyes in shock. I think he is expecting me to slap him or something. But I only smile, perhaps the first real smile of my life, and then I stand up on the tips of my toes and touch his lips again with mine. The next thing I know, I am awakened by the sun spearing through my closed eyelids. Tears immediately spring to my eyes and I open them, looking for the dirty white wall to my right. Instead I see the sun, glowing brilliantly, rising over a rusty swingset. I feel the steady rise and fall of Richard's chest, feel the weight of his left arm draped across my shoulders, and I realize that I am lying in a bed of tall grass near a spreading old oak tree. I shift my weight slightly, and Richard wakes. He blinks for a few seconds, then smiles as he looks down at me and squeezes my shoulders. Our faces are covered with a thin film of dust, streaked by tears. Our clothes are rumpled and dirty, damp with dew, his white shirt still stained wtih dark, reddish brown spots. My arms and his hands are covered with specks of dried blood. He brushes a leaf and some pieces of bark out of my tangled hair, then kisses me again, gently, just barely brushing my lips with his own. This is not a dream. This is the world of the waking, and for the first time it holds something for me. Richard and I walk back towards campus, not holding hands or touching, just walking side by side in the new morning light. I will throw away the razors when I get back to my room. I don't think I'll be needing them anymore. My friend the writer has written my future, and his own. He has enabled me to see past the pain, just as he did long ago, and find the beauty in the world again. |
| My Friend the Writer |
| Loved it? Hated it? Let me know! E-mail Jeanie |
 |
|
| For more information on self-injury please visit this website. |