Several hours later, they staggered into the house, tired and hungry, a few bags in their arms. They�d gotten a few long-sleeved shirts and a pair of shorts.

�I can�t believe you think you�re going to wear long sleeves all summer,� his mother remarked.

He didn�t bother to reply. He caught his reflection in the side of the oven and patted his hair. He�s gotten it trimmed by about four inches, so that it hit the nape of his neck, but then flipped up. He�d had bangs trimmed to about nose-length on either side, and those were flipping a bit at the ends as well. It looked styled now, instead of just long and unruly. He was beginning to like it a lot.

His mother had blinked and stuttered when she first saw it. �B-but I thought you were getting it cut?� she�s stammered.

�I did,� he said. �I want it long.�

�B-but, I thought you were getting it back the way it used to be?�

�Nothing is the way it used to be. Everything has changed. I can�t go back, and I won�t try to pretend that I can. Roger died.�

�Well,� replied his mother, humoring him, �if Roger�s dead, then who are you?�

He shrugged. �Just another fuck-up.�

She didn�t like to hear him swear so, but she�d chosen to overlook the bad habit until he was more stable. �Well, that�s a strange name to sign a check with. I think I�ll keep calling you Roger, if you don�t mind. I�m rather attached to it.�

�It�s an ass-ugly name.�

�It�s a very dignified name.�

�It�s her name.�

His birth mother had given him that name, he meant. His adopted mother wasn�t sure how to respond. He didn�t bring up his first mother much. The memories were too excruciating.

�Pick a new nickname, then, if it�ll make you feel better,� she said at last.

He thought about this for the rest of the mall trip, but he really couldn�t think of any other name that he�d feel comfortable with. All the names he liked were taken by old friends or actors. Maybe he deserved the name Roger. Perhaps it was an appropriately ugly name for undeniably ugly person.

�I bet your friends will be surprised to see you with your hair long,� his mother remarked, pulling him back into the kitchen. �I wonder if they�ll recognize you?�

He looked her dead in the eye and replied, �I don�t want anyone to recognize me.�

�Don�t you want to talk to your old friends again?�

�No.�

�Roger, I�m sure they�ve been worried about you. They at least deserve a phone call to let them know you�re doing better!�

�You�d be hard pressed to find more than two people in the world who give a damn about me. And if either of them happens to ask after me, tell him I killed myself.�

His mother took in her breath sharply. �I most certainly will not. And what on earth do you mean by that? Why don�t you want to talk to anyone?�

�I can�t face them,� he admitted. �Ever.�

��What about Arik?�

His chest constricted. �He�s better off without me, anyway,� he murmured, and fled up the stairs.

He closed his bedroom door behind him and flopped wearily backwards on his bed, his temples itching with the beginnings of a headache. It was nice to be back in his room again, his small, stuffy, chamber of Roger-ness that had shared his darkest hours with him and kept many of his worst secrets. He buried his head in his pillow, his nose deep in the scent of his own hair. What a relief to be back in private safety after those long hours among Normal People, those mindless aliens who stared at everything and never missed an eccentricity in another.

He rolled his long sleeves up and looked at the hideous white scars on his arms. No need to hide them here. The bedsheets and pillows had seen them before; they wouldn�t gawk and whisper about how ugly and strange they were. This room had listened to him rationalize his self-destruction and debate his self-worth for years. It never talked back, but the walls had held him and contained him all those nights he cried himself to sleep, and that was about as much as he could ask of several yards of plaster and wallpaper.

With a fingertip, he traced the bulbous white lines up his arm. They curled around half the circumference of his wrist. He had a thin scar across the back of his hand that started in the webbing between his middle and ring finger, crossed the valley between his knuckles, and shot towards his wrist before fading off into normal skin. That one was from when he�d smashed his fist through the glass cabinet that his parents locked all the hard liquor in that night so long ago. Yeah, people who are about to commit suicide don�t bother to take the time to look for keys.

With a sharp edge of his fingernail, he traced identical lines through all his knuckles. White stripes popped up, and then faded to red. He did it again, harder and harder and harder, and smiled to see all the red lines appear across the back of his hand.

And then he got up and smashed the back of his hand against the wall.

You stupid fuck, he screamed in his head. What the fuck is wrong with you?!

After breaking down in a Gap dressing room because of insecurities about his scars, he was going to start cutting again?!

He threw himself onto his bed with an angry grunt and buried his head in his pillow again. He pounded the pillow with his fist. Nothing had changed, then! He was still the self-destructive fuck he�d always been. Two slit wrists and two years in an asylum, and his subconscious still wanted to destroy himself.

Fuck.

�Well, why not? Why delay the inevitable? He�d do it again anyway.

He deserved it.

He needed it.

The knives were still downstairs where they�d always been. He had a pair of scissors in his desk drawer.

Oh God.

He took his other pillow and pressed it over his head, smothering himself. He choked, unable to breathe, but his hands pressed the top pillow down harder. He pressed it harder and harder, pushing the hot darkness against his face. He gagged and sobbed against the cloth, hot from his own breath, damp from his own tears�he was suffocating, he felt sick�

�Roger! Roger, what are you doing?!�

Fresh, cool air kissed his sweaty cheeks as the pillow was pulled off him and tossed to the side. He relaxed his taut muscles and melted against the bedspread, panting.

What the hell had he just done? Was that some lame-ass suicide attempt via a pillow? Or just some bizarre panic attack?

�What are you doing?� asked his mother, her voice high and frantic.

�I don�t know,� he murmured.

��are you okay?�

�I don�t know.�

His mother sat on the side of the bed and rubbed her forehead. She needed Advil. �What do you want for dinner? Is spaghetti okay?�

�I-I don�t w-want any m-more��

�Hmm? No more what, honey? I could make hotdogs if you�d prefer.�

�N-no more s-scars��

She blinked.

�Well,� she said after a few moments, her voice as strained and taut as an elastic band, �don�t cut yourself anymore.�

�It�s not that easy.�

She put her hand on his arm. �It�s your decision, honey. You do it to yourself. You can choose not to do it. You don�t want to do it, do you?�

�I d-don�t want any more scars,� he sniffled.

She stroked his hair. �I don�t want you to hurt yourself anymore. Don�t do it. Ever. Please.�

He sat up, wiping his eyes. �I-I can�t control it.� He tugged back his sleeve and offered her his arm. �I never meant to do it this much. Before Marisa, I hadn�t done it since the last time you caught me. B-but I was so upset because of what she did that I cut my upper arms�a-and everything kept getting worse and I couldn�t st-stop and it got out of control and then I�� He didn�t bother to add: �slit my wrists.�

�I wish you had told me, honey.� She slid her arm around his shoulders. �You promise you�ll tell me if you ever start feeling like that again?�

�I didn�t want to tell you. I knew you�d make me stop,� he sniveled. �And I liked it.�

�That�s not normal, honey.�

He pulled away from her and threw his arms out towards her. �What about this is normal?! What about me is normal?! I�m a fucking goddamn depressive masochist!� He grabbed his pillow and hurled it angrily across the room. �I�m so fucking sick of this, of all of this! Why can�t I just be normal?!� He grabbed his second pillow and heaved it at the wall. His mother cringed at the slam as it hit. � I just want to be like everyone else! Everyone we saw today was perfectly fucking normal! But I�m not!� He heaved the bare undersides of his arms at her again. �Anyone can see what I am. One look at this and they know what I�ve done. Everyone can tell I�m some sick suicidal fuck! For the rest of my life, everyone will know that I�m crazy! It�s so fucking obvious!�

�It�s not that bad�� his mother murmured.

He shoved his arms closer to her face. �Not that bad?! Goddammit, look at this! It�s disgusting!�

�Tell people you were in a car accident or something.�

�Does this look like a car accident to you?! Would a car accident have scarred the word FUCK below my elbow?!�

��well, I hadn�t noticed that one until you pointed it out,� she muttered dryly.

�I can�t take my shirt off for the rest of my fucking life. How can I ever date or get married? Every girl who looks at me will scream!� He flopped backwards on his bed and rolled over, his nose in the bedspread. �Christ, if I�d known I was going to survive I would have used fucking carbon monoxide poisoning.�

His mother leaned over and caressed his shoulder blades. �I thank God every single day that you survived, Roger. And that you�re home again.�

He grunted. �Why? So I can bother you again? So you�ll have to put up with all my shit for the rest of your life? It would have been better if I�d died so that you could have started over with some new kid who wasn�t so goddamn fucked up.�

She seized his clammy hand and clutched it. �Roger, honey, I love you. Nothing you do or any of your problems will ever change that. No matter how hard things get, you�re still my son, and I love you more than life itself.�

A sob escaped him. �I�m not your son.�

�For the past fourteen years I�ve loved you, fed you, tucked you in at night, gone to all your soccer games, listened to everything you�ve had to say, cleaned up your puke when you were sick, calmed you down when you were upset, surprised you every Christmas morning�� She kissed his fingers. �So how can you say that starting seven years late really makes us any less of a family? Don�t tell me you think a difference in biology means I love you any less? If anything, it makes me love you more; I feel so blessed to have you as my son even though I didn�t give birth to you.�

His back quivered, and suddenly quick, breathless sobs erupted against the bedspread.

�Roger�?�

�Why the hell did you adopt me?!� he shrieked. �You didn�t even want a boy, or a seven year-old�you and Dad said you�d wanted a baby girl! And you knew I had problems! You knew I was messed up�so why the hell did you choose me?!�

His mother took a deep breath and pushed herself further back onto his bed so she could be closer to him. �I�ve told you that story many times, sweetie. Yes, originally we intended to adopt a baby girl, but your father and I both fell in love with you the first time we met you. You had such big, pretty brown eyes and floppy dark hair. You were such a beautiful child.�

She trailed her tiny, pale fingers through his long dark locks. �But you looked so sad. You had the saddest eyes I had ever seen. We asked your caretaker what had happened to you, and she told us. She said you were a sweet little boy, but terribly shy and always very sad. And from that moment on, all I wanted was to make you happy.

�Your father felt the same way. No matter how many other children we met, we couldn�t get you out of our minds. I knew I would never forget you, or your sad brown eyes, if we adopted another child. My heart was made up as soon as I saw you. I�ve never regretted my decision for a second. Never.�

He sniffled. �So you adopted me out of pity?�

�No, no! Love, honey�and compassion. Not pity.�

�Your life would have been so much easier if you�d�sniff� chosen someone else,� he whimpered. �You wouldn�t have had to deal with all my goddamn problems. You could have had a normal family and not had to spend so much money on medications and therapy and mental hospitals. You could have adopted other children if you hadn�t had to spend so much time taking care of me and my stupid issues. That�s what you really wanted, wasn�t it? You wanted a house full of kids�and a daughter�but instead you got stuck with one fucked up moron son.�

�We did have some difficult times, honey, but they were our struggles, not just yours. Not once have I ever resented you or anything about you. I know your father didn�t, either. Besides, all parents have problems with their children at some point or another. If your father and I had been able to have children, who is to say that that child wouldn�t have had his or her own issues? Only God knows those things.�

He was still weeping softly. She leaned over and kissed the back of his head. �I love you, honey. Just�remember that.�

�I should have died.�

�No�� she gasped.

�I should have drowned.�

His mother sat up. �What?! What are you talking about?!�

�She tried to drown me.�

�What�?�

� She beat me until I could barely move and then held me under the water in the bathtub. It was boiling hot and I was choking, so I screamed and screamed and screamed. The more I screamed the more she yelled at me and the harder she held me down. The neighbors heard the screams and called the police.

�That�s how she tried to kill me.�

For several minutes, his mother could barely breathe. Hands over her mouth, she stared.

He had never once brought up that horrible night, the night his first mother had attempted to murder him, the night the police took him away. The social services had never told her exactly what had happened. She�d never asked him. She�d always hoped he didn�t remember.

She�d always prayed he didn�t remember.

�I�m sorry,� came his voice, monotone now, not crying anymore. She barely heard him over her own shaking sobs. �I shouldn�t have told you that. I don�t know why I said it. I don�t want you to have to think about it.�

She wanted to say something�she was supposed to comfort him, she was supposed to say something soothing�but she was crying so hard there was nothing she could do but stare at the back of his dark head and his angular back flat against the bed, dressed in the color of dried blood.

His voice was flat and dry. �I always do this. No matter how hard I try, all I ever do is hurt people I love. I can�t escape it. If I die, I�ll hurt you. If I live, I�ll keep doing things like this and hurt you. The only thing I bring to this world is pain for others. I don�t deserve to live. If you didn�t care about me so much, I�d kill myself�and do it right this time�it�s would be the only good thing I�d ever done for the world.�

His mother screamed. She flung herself against his back and buried her face in the space between his shoulder blades.

�Stop it!� she screamed. �Stop it, please, stop! Don�t say such horrible things! It�s not true! None of it is true! It�s not true!�

He blinked against the bedspread, stunned.

She pressed her lips to his spine, crying violently, and her tears drenched his shirt. �I love you so much�I love you so much! So many people love you and would die for you, no matter how many times you hurt them�why don�t you understand that?�

�Mom!� he gasped, for she had never let him see her cry like this before.

�I missed you so much while you were gone I thought I would die. I was so afraid that I would never see you again. You are all I have left. I need you�I need you to be with me! I can�t bear to lose you again�I can�t, I can�t!�

He raised himself on his elbows while she collapsed against his back, her face against his shirt. His heart was pounding, and she could feel it reverberate through his skin.

�Stay with me, please! I don�t want you to be sent away any more, I don�t ever want to ever have to see you in a hospital again! Please, God, Roger, Roger, if you die, I�ll follow you. Don�t die, please, just don�t die! No matter how hard it gets or how little you think of yourself, don�t you ever try to kill yourself again!�

She was near hysterical now, her little body shaking with deep-bellied sobs. �I can�t bear to be alone anymore!� she screamed, �I need you to be with me! If that�s being selfish, so be it! Please, if you love me at all, stay alive! If only for me, LIVE! Promise me you�ll live! Promise me!�

�Mom!� he cried, sitting up. He swiveled around and caught his mother in his arms as she collapsed against his chest and wept. Never before had she felt so tiny and fragile to him. Carefully, he held her, afraid that even arms as scrawny as his might crack her narrow heaving spine.

�Mom�� he whispered, but his voice choked, and tears dripped off his chin. He couldn�t speak. There were no words.

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