Savin' Me

My eyes fixed on the ground, I kicked a tiny pebble that was in my way. I stopped and watched as it skipped across the cement before finally landing in a sewer drain about ten feet away.

Sighing loudly, I continued down the street, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my ratty old denim jacket. I was pretty sure it had been my mother's, but I wasn't positive. I had gotten it when I complained to my father about walking to school and being cold. After he'd whooped me for complaining, he threw the jacket at me, muttering something about having found it in the attic and it would do.

"ZOE!" I heard a voice call from behind me. The voice wasn't immediately familiar, so I slouched over even further than I usually walk and kept my head down, focusing on nothing but getting home in one piece. If I ever got jumped, Dad would kill me.

"Stop!"

Okay, I wasn't sure who was calling to me, and I didn't understand why they thought yelling at me to stop was going to make me oblige. Dying was not on the top of my to-do list, that was for sure.

Whoever it was put a hand on my shoulder, and I turned around, immediately getting into a defensive stance. After a second, I realized who it was and put my arms down, staring at the boy questioningly.

"Hi," he smiled a little.

"Hey." I was shocked that his yell had come from him, since he was such a quiet kid. Or, guy, I guess. It was hard to grasp that he was older than me.

"I don't know if I told you yesterday, but my name's Johnny."

"I know." He gave me a confused look. "Your friend Steve approached me at school and told me that I better not tell anyone about how your mother yells at you."

"Oh," he muttered. "Yeah, I guess that's somethin' that he'd do."

"You didn't ask him to do it?"

His eyes got wide. "No, o'course not. I-I wouldn't do that."

"Alright." I was kind of surprised how...defensive and kind of embarrassed he was.

"So did you get in trouble? That you were late, I mean."

"Does it look like it?" I joked, turning so he could see my face. "I'm fine. My dad was actually having one of his days were he gets really high and, once he crashes, he just sleeps the whole day. It worked out for me."

"That's good. But what did you mean, 'Does it look like it'?"

I bit my lip. It was obvious that he was looking for a flat-out confession that my father abused me, but I wasn't ready to give him that. Even though I'd felt a connection with him, it didn't mean that I was ready to tell him everything that was going on in my life.

"Um, I meant, don't you think that I'd be all depressed if I got in trouble?" I tried to pass off, but I knew that he wouldn't believe me for a second. I wouldn't if I were him.

"I guess," he played along, putting his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Hm...he did that too. Weird. "So, anyway, going back to Steve comin' up to you, I'm real sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it," I waved off, "It's not a big deal. Anyway, I should get home. Ya know, I don't want my dad to, um, yell at me."

He could hear the false note in my voice, but he pretended not to. "Okay. Well, I guess I'll see you around then."

"Yeah," I nodded with a smile. As I turned away from him and continued toward my house, I realized that I really did want to see him again. Something told me that he and I could be really good friends.

When I got in the house, I closed the door as quietly as I could as I stepped into the darkness.

"Where the fuck have you been?!" my father snapped. Shit...he was awake...

"I was just walking home," I whispered, pulling my backpack straps closer to my neck. "That's all."

In a second, he was in front of me, and he shoved me against the door. "Why did it take so long?"

"I saw one of my friends on the way, and we talked for a few minutes." I was careful to keep my voice low. I had a feeling that if I spoke any louder, my voice would crack, and crack horribly at that.

"Did I say you could do that?"

"No, sir. You didn't."

He slapped me across the face, his hand landing right under my eye. I cringed away from the blow, my eye watering simply out of instinct.

"Don't ever be late again, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now go take a shower, and then make my dinner."

I nodded before disappearing down the hallway. I took a shower quickly, changed into my pajamas, and made Dad some chicken and mixed vegetables for dinner.

Putting the plate in front of him, I tried to smile, but when my eye scrunched up, it sent a shock of pain through the side of my face.

"Stop being a wimp!" he snapped at me, shoving me out of the way. "Now get out of my sight. I don't want to see your disgusting face anymore."

I did what he said gladly, disappearing into my room and shutting the door. My shoulder was still aching a little from when Dad pushed me. I tried to pull down the collar of my shirt to expose my shoulder to see if it was red, but it wouldn't stretch down far enough.

Sighing, I just pulled the shirt over my head and leaned close to the mirror, examining my bony shoulder. As I'd expected, it was very red and looked like it would soon turn into a bruise.

I pulled back and stared at myself for a second more. The image absolutely disgusted me. My ribs were clearly visible, sticking unnaturally out of my skin.

I averted my gaze and put my shirt back on. Tears started rolling down my face. I wished that I could have been like other girls: healthy. But I couldn't do that because Dad wouldn't let me eat while I was in his house.

A familiar empty feeling settled itself in my stomach, and I knew what that meant. I crawled into my closet, sitting Indian-style on the floor and closing the folding white door behind me.

It was my safe haven, where Dad couldn't ever enter. It was the only place that was mine, mine alone.

I took a deep breath to try to calm myself down a little, but it didn't work, my breath coming out in a loud sob. That sobered me up immediately, and I slapped my hand over my mouth, hoping that Dad hadn't heard me.

After sitting still for a couple minutes, I figured that Dad was too busy eating and watching TV to hear my cry.

The tears couldn't completely be stopped though, so they made continuous tracks down my face as I reached into the far corner of my closet.

The old shoe box was worn, and it looked like any other shoe box. But to me, it was different, special.

I bit my lip as I took out the tiny razor, and put the box to the side. Before I could talk myself out of it, I lifted up my sleeve and swiped, leaving a trail of ruby red liquid behind.

In order to keep myself from making anything too obvious, I always stopped after one cut. It was all I usually needed, really, to get rid of the pain and frustration that I was feeling.

The sharp pain lingered, and I let myself bleed for a minute, leaning back against the wall and trying to convince myself that everything I was worried about was just like the blood leaking out of my wrist; it was all going away.