1,000 Stars are Passing By

When I step out of the shower, my skin is bright red. I'm used to scalding hot showers after being raped. It's no big deal, not even when I started using the cleaner for the kitchen to scrub my body. I'm just cleaning myself off.

No amount of soap would wash all the dirt off me.

For some reason, I search the cabinets and drawers. I rummage through them, finding nothing out of the ordinary, not even for my mom.

Just as I start to look away, closing the drawer, something gleams, catching my eye. I know exactly what it is, without even really looking at it, but I pick it up anyway.

It's my dad's old shaving kit. He never used it, he preferred the modern, electric ones, but it was his father's, and his grandfather's, so he thought he should keep it.

Never did have a son to give that to.

There's just plain razor blades in there. With some kind of handle thing that you slide them into. I know this is what Erin used, I know the full details on her death. Besides, one of the holders for a razor is empty.

That doesn't matter, there's plenty more in there.

Why am I thinking like that? It doesn't affect me whether there's any left in the stupid metallic case.

I say this to myself, even though I'm sliding a razor out.

As I turn it over in my hands, I think about when The Voice took over after the Halloween party. I remembered when I smashed my fist against the mirror, and everything was peaceful. I still have a small mark on my hand from that.

I look down at the sharp object in my hands. I can see the appeal of these, and why Erin would choose this as her weapon. They're so shiny and... perfect. Just the glint of light from this blade shows me so much hope and love.

I stop myself, my right hand holding the blade hovering above my left wrist. What the hell am I doing? I'm not going to cut myself.

My hand inches forward still, heart racing with each millimeter. Closer, closer, closer.

Something stops me, just short. My own nerves. It's going to hurt, I'm going to bleed, there's going to be a scar I will have to hide.

I am not a cutter.

Slowly, I talk myself down from the ledge. Sighing, I hold my forehead, and place the razor back in its slot, breathing hard.

I still don't know why I think I'm worth saving. What kind of teenager would have sex with their fifty year old guitar teacher?

I lay back on the bathroom floor, heart still racing. The case is still open, laying beside me. I still think about cutting myself, but this time, more rationally.

Pros: Who would really want to rape someone covered in scars? It would give me peace, when I need it most. The noise inside my head would stop.

That one is the most appealing. Sometimes, the sounds and pictures in my head are so overwhelming. I haven't found a way to get rid of them yet.

Cons: Zack wouldn't really want to touch me either. It would be another thing that proves I'm fucked up. I would have to hide them.

Wearing long sleeves in Arizona's weather doesn't really appeal to me that much. I guess I could just wear a ton of bracelets, but I've never been a big fan of those. Or, I don't even have to cut my wrists, most people who cut cut on their upper arms, or legs. That's easier to hide.

Wait a second, that should have gone in the Pros? No, it's still a Con because...

I hate organizing things in my jumbled brain.

“Elina?” someone calls from the front of my house, causing me to jump in surprise. I quickly stand up, and shove the case back where I found it.

“I'm in here,” I call out to them. It's Ross, I know that much.

“Are you alright?” he asks, when I step out of the room, fully clothed.

“What do you mean? Of course I'm alright,” I ask skeptically, still a little off from my close encounter with myself.

“Well, we haven't heard from you in about five days, we're a little worried,” he says, brow furrowed to prove the worry part.

“I don't really know how the whole 'Christmas' thing works,” I lie, “but I thought you guys would be busy, y'know, with family and band gift exchange,”

“You should be there next year, Elina,” he says, “It's really fun, and brings us closer, if only for a day,”

“I can't. It's against my religion,” I joke.

He shoots me a look, finding the humor, but choosing to ignore it, “Maybe you should actually get a religion before you claim that,”

“This is a possible correlation...” I say scientifically, stroking my chin.

“There's also a correlation in Christmas and happiness,” Ross sings.

“Yeah, but on my chart, it proves to be negative,” I say, pushing past him.

“Why do you fight us so much on this?” he questions, “If you'd just try it out, I'm sure you'd like it,”

I almost let slip, in my anger, that I have tried it out, but keep my jaw tight.

“I'm pretty sure you're the only family in whole West region that doesn't celebrate Christmas,”

“What about other religions, huh?” I ask hotly, “Islamic, Jewish, Mormon. There's a lot of those in Utah,”

“Mormons celebrate Christmas,” he returns.

“I don't care!” I exclaim, “The point is, I'm not Christian, or Mormon, or Catholic, or even Baptist. I don't do Christmas. Period.”

“Why not? A lot of people who don't have a religion still celebrate. Just because you don't believe in Christ, doesn't mean you can't treat his birthday like something special,”

“It's a religious holiday. I prefer not to defile other's faiths like that,”

It continues like this for a moment, until I get completely fed up with it, “Get out,” I command.

“What?”

“Get out, right now,” I say again, pushing him out the door. Ross has never treated me like that, ever. I guess I kind of was acting like a brat, though. But maybe if he wasn't a dick in the first place...

I was being defensive. It's probably what happened in the bathroom that has my nerves all jumbled. I hate feeling like this, on edge.

Suddenly, I storm back into the bathroom, and yank the case out of the drawer once more. I don't know what I'm doing, for a second I thought I actually was going to cut myself, but instead, I try to throw it away.

My hand lifts high in the air, hoping to actually slam it into the trash can, but I freeze. This is my dad's, I can't just throw it away. He's been gone for a long time, and this is one of the only things that's left anymore.

I have one of his shirts, stuffed at the bottom of a box underneath my bed. Mom wanted to throw everything away, but I sneaked that one.

It was his favorite, and I knew he would have been sad to see it gone. It's silly, looking back on it. I'm not too sure I believe in an afterlife anymore. It would be nice to have one, but there's no way to know for sure.

Instead of throwing them out, I go into the room Erin and I shared, without thinking, and shove it in that same box. As soon as I stood up, and was conscience of my surroundings, the memories came flooding back.