Cut. Part 5

"Hmm. Alright then. Could I trouble you to clean up the lunch mess, Persephone? I'm a little tired. You can stay here the rest of the afternoon if you would like. Help yourself to anything to eat or drink." He had only eaten a third of his sandwich.

"Yeah, sure, not a problem." I heard Ken's bedroom door shut and pushed myself back from the table. As I rinsed dishes and put away all the sandwich stuff, I tried to figure out what Ken's angle was. Why hadn't he gotten on to me? Why wasn't he asking me more questions? Wasn't he curious why I was at his house so much? I switched back and forth from being relieved he minded his own business to being hurt he didn't care enough to ask.

After clean-up, I was at a loss what to do next. I couldn't go home. I didn't want to leave. I didn't feel like reading, although my options were almost limitless with Ken's bookshelves. I wandered through the living room, picking up photos but not really looking at them, running my fingers over the spines of books and finally, with nothing else to do, I stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the wall.

As I often did when I found myself restless or bored, my fingers began trailing along the scars on my arms. I began with the ones at my wrist, pus.h.i.+ng my watch out of the way to feel them. Next the crooks of my elbows. Finally, I found the thick one along my right shoulder.

I remembered that one. I remembered it well. It had been deeper than most. It wouldn't stop bleeding, and I was terrified it would need st.i.tches. I had gone through almost an entire box of gauze pads trying to make it stop.

All I had really wanted to do was lie down and close my eyes. The lack of sleep combined with the loss of blood had exhausted me. But I also knew I couldn't leave those b.l.o.o.d.y bandages and rags in my room. Nor could I throw them away at the house. The fallout of this cut was enough to actually raise suspicion. I dragged myself out to my car, drove to the gas station, and threw them in the dumpster.

On the way home my eyes refused to stay open, and I swerved into the other lane, almost colliding with a large work truck. The driver laid on his horn, jerking me awake in time to get out of his way. Only after I got home did I realize what a golden opportunity I had missed. My MINI would have been no match for his several tons of steel. Natural instinct to avoid danger had gotten in the way again.

After the scar on my shoulder, I felt for the one on my left hip. It was so thick I could feel it through my dress. It wrapped all the way around from my b.u.t.t to inner thigh. If it wasn't so morbid, I would have almost been impressed by that one. It took real dedication to cut like that.

There had been no mapping, no rituals, no anything that night. In a moment of desperation, pain beyond any human threshold rolling through my body, I had s.n.a.t.c.hed a razor and simply sliced. There was so much disgust and shame welling up inside I didn't think I would ever be able to bleed it all out. I didn't even register the pain for a good sixty seconds.

When my leg started throbbing, and I saw how much blood was pouring out I knew I should be panicked. This could finally be it. For all the attacks on my wrists, it could be this cut-not even across a major artery-that would end it. How ironic. The temporary fix could have become the permanent cure.

In the end, my body betrayed me. I did nothing to stop the blood. I lay down on my bed and let it bleed. It clotted on its own, after soaking my sheets. I threw them away on the way to school the next morning. There was nothing I could do about the stain on my mattress. Good thing about being a girl-built-in excuse for bloodstains.

And then there were the fresh cuts across my stomach. When I touched them through my dress, the fabric scratched painfully against them. They were shallow enough I wasn't really worried about them opening back up, but deep enough they would probably always be with me.

Some of the scars had faded over the years. Some seemed like they would never heal. Some I could tie to a specific event or time. Some were there to remind me of who and what I was. There were days I didn't know if I could define myself without those marks on my body. They were mine and only mine. If I didn't add to the collection, would I stop being me? Was there a chance I could be someone else? Someone better?

Suddenly, I was exhausted. I didn't want to think or feel anymore. I wanted to sleep. I curled up in what I now considered my recliner (even though Ken still sat there when we read) and pulled the old fleece blanket over me, all the way up to my nose. I went to sleep thinking of vanilla and sandalwood, cold steel and hurt.

"Persephone. Wake up, Persephone." When I felt a hand on my shoulder gently shaking me awake my first instinct was to curl into a ball. Or punch. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping if I pretended to be asleep he would go away. It very rarely worked.

"Persephone, it's time to get up." Then I remembered I wasn't at home, and it wasn't my father trying to rouse me. It was safe to wake up. I rolled my head around to look at Ken standing over me. I had no idea what time it was. Should I be at home? Was I late? I was supposedly grounded.

"Oh s.h.i.+t! What time is it?" I struggled to get out of the chair.

"Calm down. It's barely after two."

"Oh good. Um, I kind of got grounded yesterday. I'm supposed to go straight home after school."

"Grounded? For what?" Because of you. Because my mom lets my dad play her like a chess game. Because I refuse to tell the truth to anyone but you. Because my family is completely screwed up. Any of those answers would be truthful but none really acceptable.

"Mom thinks I've been sneaking around. She told me I couldn't do anything after school or on the weekends for a few weeks. Don't worry. She'll forget about it in a couple of days."

Ken sighed and sat in the rocking chair. "Perhaps it's time we talked. I think there are some things we both need to know about each other."

If he had caught me at any other time, if I hadn't just woken up, if I hadn't been emotionally exhausted from the night before, maybe I could have come up with something better. Maybe I could have kept the wall up with a perfect lie. Or maybe not.

"Mom drinks a lot. She is usually in bed by nine. And Dad travels for his job. n.o.body keeps track of me all that much."

Ken took a moment to absorb what I'd said while he got up and walked over to the bookcase. He kept his back to me when he said, "I had a sister. She was four years younger than me."

Ken turned around, holding the photo of him and the girl. He handed it to me. "This is her when she was fourteen. I was getting ready to leave for boot camp. Her name was Rachel."

"She was beautiful."

"Yes, she was. This was the last time I saw her. While I was in Vietnam, Rachel was killed in a car accident."

"Oh, Ken, I'm so sorry."

He held up his hand. "Let me get through this. Before I s.h.i.+pped out, there was this guy coming around. Nick. A couple of years younger than me, couple of years older than Rachel. Our parents were hard workers, and my dad was a hard drinker. My mother did what she could, but she wasn't a very strong woman. I did my best to take care of Rachel, but I needed to get out. My father wasn't a good man, and he and I were coming to a head. One of us was going to get hurt and bad. He didn't much bother with Rachel, but there was something about me that got under his skin. When I was old enough, I signed up for the Marines.

"So back to Nick. He was a hood. If he hadn't flunked out of school by then, he was well on his way. The first time he showed up to the house smelling like whiskey I let him know he wasn't welcome around my sister. The second time I laid him out. I thought that was the end of it. After I left, I suppose he thought the way was clear. Rachel was lonely and sad. She started going around with him. He ran a stop sign one night and killed them both. I was somewhere I couldn't be reached. I didn't find out about it until months later. I missed her funeral."

"Ken, I didn't know. I mean, I thought when I saw the picture... That first night when I came over, I thought maybe she was..."

"The reason I told you all this, Persephone, is to let you know, I owe something to Rachel. I abandoned her when she needed me because I was selfish and wanted to get away. I will not do that again. So I have given this situation a lot of thought, and I think we need to come to a new arrangement."

My heart and stomach crawled into my throat, fighting for s.p.a.ce. I couldn't breathe. New arrangement? What did that mean? An "arrangement" like I had with my father? I knew it! G.o.ddammit, I knew it was coming! How did I let myself actually believe that this time was different? They always wanted something in return. There was always a catch. f.u.c.k it. Bring it on. You can have whatever you want, and I can have what I want. The strength to finally finish the job. I hate you.

"Um, okay." I tried to keep my voice calm and even.

"I think you should move in here." I stared at him. He couldn't have possibly said what I thought he did. What price tag was attached? What did he really want? I waited. "This is what I've come up with. I would like to hire you between now and when you leave for college. I would like you to be my in-home caregiver. Let me tell you what I expect, and then you can let me know what you think."

And here it was-what he expected. "Uh...okay. I mean, I don't know what to say."

"I will expect you here every night by five. You will have from two in the afternoon on Sat.u.r.days until two on Sundays off. I will need you to do some cooking, some cleaning, reading obviously, grocery shopping, that kind of thing. I will provide room and board and pay you two hundred and fifty dollars a week. You have about fourteen weeks left before you leave for school. That will give you around $3,500. That should cover your books and some of your living expenses for the first year. Would you like the job?"

There was no manipulation or intimidation. Ken was looking me in the eye, his face serious and sincere. Was this my chance? Was there really another way out? I swallowed my natural instinct to respond 'h.e.l.l yeah!' and instead said, "Yes, sir."

"Do you think your parents would allow it?" There wasn't a chance in h.e.l.l.

"I don't know."

"I would like you to start moving your stuff in this weekend. There is a spare bedroom you can have. It has a bed, dresser, and," his voice caught before he continued, "some other stuff we can move out. You'll probably want new sheets and that kind of thing. You can decorate it however you would like."

And then it hit me. What about my piano? I couldn't possibly leave my music behind. And it would be impossible to move it over here. My parents would never agree to pay a professional moving company. Even if I did figure out a way to bring it, when would I play it? What if Ken hated music? His life was quiet.

Did he realize it wouldn't be quiet anymore? I would have to shower at his house. Eat there. Do homework. My clothes would have to be washed. My phone would be ringing and pinging with texts. What if I had a nightmare? I hadn't yet in all the nights I had stayed there, but what if I did?

Then the ultimate question sliced through my brain-what about my most important habit? My first and strongest love. Would the razors come with me, too? Would I still need them? Could I hide it from Ken?

"Come on, I'll show you your room." With all of this still bubbling in my head like a poisonous brew in a cauldron, I followed Ken down the small hallway, past the corner bedroom I found him in what seemed like a lifetime ago, to a door I a.s.sumed led to my new bedroom.

Ken opened it and waved for me to go in. I stopped at the threshold, breath, heartbeat, brain function, everything slamming to a halt. Against the wall was an old Baldwin upright with a matching bench.

"It was my sister's. She played beautifully." I barely heard him as I crossed the room and lifted the lid. There wasn't a single speck of dust on it. From the outside it seemed incredibly well-cared for. I pressed a key. The note was true. The sheet music for 'Amazing Grace' was lying open.

Without asking I sat down and began to play. The melody filled the room, sweet and clear. I didn't realize I was crying until the final note faded.

Ken placed his hand on my shoulder. "Welcome home, Persephone."

Mom and Dad were both home when I got there. Dad must have taken off early. He was tapping away on his phone, most likely s.e.xting the little chippie from his office, and Mom was staring at a gla.s.s that was little more than melting ice. I could only hope this was at least the second drink of the day. They both looked up when I walked in.

"Hey, guys."

"Hi, honey. How was school?" Mom's eyes were too bright, her words too careful. Yep, she had started early. I caught her at the perfect moment of low resistance before she tipped over into oblivion.

"Good, same old thing. Listen, I have something I need to talk to you about." I took a deep breath and sat down on the ottoman in front of them. "So I got this job offer, and I would really like to take it."

"A job offer? I didn't know you were looking for a job. If you had told me I would have found you something to do in my office." Yeah, that would be awesome, Dad. Like I don't have to put up with enough of your s.h.i.+t at home.

"I wasn't really. It just fell into my lap. It seems like a pretty good gig, and it will help a lot with school expenses this fall."

"Oh, are you actually going to college?" The disdain in Dad's voice went right through me. It took all my willpower to keep from wilting or b.i.t.c.h slapping him.

"Yes, Dad, I'm going to college."

"Really? Because it doesn't seem like you've done much on that front. I wasn't sure you were even going to graduate." Throughout my childhood I saw Dad tear Mom apart with little digs here and there-almost a Chinese water torture of insults that kept her constantly thinking she wasn't quite complete. A wife with no confidence was a wife easily controlled. So was a daughter.

I remember once, when I was seven or so, my mom was having a particularly good night. She had even made dinner-a real dinner with side dishes and everything. Dad missed it because of a "late meeting". We were sitting at the dining room table giggling and laughing when he came in. Mom asked where he had been.

"Not shoveling food in my mouth, that's for sure. You know, you can't blame all that weight on having a baby when she's almost a teenager." I don't remember Mom eating even a full meal from that day on.

Every once in a while Dad would turn his attacks on me. When he felt I was maybe getting too strong, too outspoken, or maybe inching away from his control, I would be the recipient of those jabs. Afterward, when I was sullen, or G.o.d forbid he caught me crying, he would gasp incredulously. Often it was followed with a shocked, "What's wrong with you? I was just teasing a little."

I wasn't going to fall for it this time-I couldn't. He wasn't going to tell me I was nothing, unacceptable, ever again. My shoulders stiffened. "I'm going to the University of Oklahoma. In Norman. I got my acceptance letter a few weeks ago."

"And how exactly do you plan to pay for that? I'm not footing the bill for out-of-state tuition. Hope you applied at Missouri State because that's the only place you're going. You can live at home and go to college. Save me some money, and your mom won't get lonely. Now, if there's nothing else, I need to go pack. I'm leaving for a trip tomorrow."

Dad pushed himself off the couch and patted me on the head as he walked by. A small reminder that I would stay in my place, he was still in control.

"Honey, you'll have fun at... I mean, maybe you can go to Oklahoma in a year or so... You can always..." Her voice trailed off, her brain grasping for the next word through her vodka haze. There was nothing there. There never was.

"Forget it, Mom. It's no big deal."

"We should go shopping this weekend."

"Yeah, maybe. I'm going to my room."

"Okay, sweetie." She went back to staring at her empty gla.s.s.

On the way down the stairs, I realized I hadn't gotten around to telling them about the job with Ken. Not that it mattered. There was no way out-I was never going to escape. It was going to be Mom, Dad and me in this house forever. Drinking, cutting, abusing, and hating each other every single day.

Downstairs, I stood in the hallway between the bedroom and the piano room. Which one tonight? Playing or cutting? Music or blood? If the hall was narrower I could have grabbed both doork.n.o.bs at the same time. As it was, my fingertips barely brushed them. I stayed there, my arms extended, grasping for one option or the other, willing my body to lean towards a decision. I don't care which, just pick one dammit.

I heard something hit the floor directly above me-Dad must have dropped something. The sound caused me to jump slightly and lose my balance enough to fall towards my bedroom door. It was fate, G.o.d, whatever. The decision was made for me. Tonight it would be metal.

It was robotic. Push play on the stereo, take the razors out of the drawer, turn on the small lamp instead of the harsh overhead light, grab the bandages from under the bed-and that's when I saw my duffel bag lying on the closet floor, dirty clothes from the last time I stayed at Maggie's spilling out.

What was keeping me from throwing clothes in there and walking out the door? What could he possibly do to stop me? Lock me in my room? Ground me? Cut me off? Cut me off from what? Him? My mom? Money? I didn't need or want any of it. I grabbed the bag out of the closet.

It held more than just clothing. It held promises. Promises of uninterrupted sleep, someone to care about me, a future. The razor only held promises of more pain. But that pain was my life-it was all I knew. Could I really be something other than a collection of scars and terrors? Something beyond prey? I curled up on my bed, the bag in one hand and the razor in the other.

Sleep and I weren't great friends that night, not that we ever were. By the time the sun started turning the sky a dusky gray, my hands were cramped from holding onto both. I heard the shower start upstairs and knew Dad was getting ready for work. Getting ready to leave. For several days. The only question remaining was what was I going to do about it?

My fist unclenched and the razor rolled out of my hand. It was time to let go.

I shoved handfuls of t-s.h.i.+rts and underwear into my bag, grabbed sheet music without even looking to see what it was, and gathered the cords for my laptop. As I stuffed my phone charger into the side pocket I realized I was really doing it. When I left for school, I had no intention of coming back. Ever.

Mom was stirring upstairs. If I didn't get moving I would have to find a way to sneak my stuff out to the car without her seeing. And I would be late for school. I just needed to hear the front door slam-the sound that meant Dad was gone.

The seconds ticked by. I could hear him in the kitchen. Then walking back to his bedroom. In the living room. What the h.e.l.l was he doing? If I didn't leave in ten minutes I would need a written excuse to get into cla.s.s. s.h.i.+t. Was that the door?

I slung the bag over my shoulder. Where was my backpack? Was it still in my car? I desperately tried to remember if I had carried it in the day before. Had I gone into the piano room last night? Was it in there? It had to be in my car. I had to leave. I had to get out.

I raced up the stairs, my bag banging against the stairwell. G.o.d, please don't let her come out because of the noise. s.h.i.+t, where were my keys? In my pocket. They were in my pocket. I could feel them digging into my thigh with each step. My head was sprinting in a thousand different directions.

My hand was on the front door, the finish line was right there-sunlight, freedom, escape.

"Persephone, what are you doing?" s.h.i.+t. I didn't turn around.

"Going to school, Mom. I'm running late." Please let me go. No more questions. Just let me go.

"What's in the bag? It looks like you're running a- oh. I see." Breathe. All you have to do is breathe. Then open the front door and walk away. You can do this.

I leaned my head against the door. "Mom, I-"