Status: The end. Thank you all so much for reading.
Wrists
wrists .
I get out of bed at exactly 6:30 A.M. every morning, pull myself into my tiny bathroom, cleanse my body, dress it, whiten my teeth, shake off the memories of yesterday, and drag myself down our wooden staircase. My black coffee has to be prepared at exactly 6:50 A.M., and I must drink it once the clock hits 7:00 A.M. or else my whole day is ruined. I have to listen to the sound of it pouring into my favorite coffee mug, and I have to watch the steam float up and disappear into the air—I have to watch it no matter what. If I get that done on time, I empty the contents of my coffee mug into my stomach while reading a book on the couch, and watch my parents get dressed and leave for work. Once they’re gone, I wash my coffee mug, put it where it belongs—in the cabinet—and wait for my sister to get downstairs so I can drive her to school.
While I’m waiting I normally boil five eggs, take off the egg shells in the sink, eat two egg whites of the five eggs, and leave everything else for my sister. She likes her eggs sprinkled with salt, and also a bowl of cheerios, the milk drowning the tiny pieces inside. I prepare this for her every morning and I have it all laid out by 7:20 A.M. By now she is already heading down the stairs. She always watched me while she eats her food; she just stares at me, studying me.
I’m used to her stares. She does it every morning. While filling her mouth with food, she studies me. I’m like an animal to her; a creature so odd and frightening that it’s difficult not to stare. Everyone in my immediate family looks at me the same way—never speaking, just looking. I would ask what was wrong, but I was deathly afraid of the answer. I didn’t want to know. Let them stare; let them watch. I’m their caged animal; the horror only they can see.
She eats for a long time—she always chews her food carefully, very carefully, so I tend to make myself a cup of hot green tea. I pour a very small bit of honey into the green tea after it’s done, and I drink it slowly, leaning back against the counter tops, even though it hurts. She still watches me as she finishes up, and then places the bowl in the sink, and the trash in the garbage bin. She’s then ready to go. So I drive her.
We drive in silence. She tends to put in a CD from her favorite artist of the month, and I quietly listen to it, whether I was enjoying it or not. She likes the kind of music with low beats, and fast-paced singing. I finally get to her school around 7:35 A.M. She gathers her things, opens the car door, and jumps out. By this time, she turns on the heels of her shoes, looks up at me with those innocent, sea-blue eyes, and says, “Be careful.”
And then she’s gone.
I never understood what she meant by that. But, then again, maybe I did, but I just didn’t want to. Because facing the truth is something I never want to do.
Before I drive off, I glance down at my wrists.
While I’m waiting I normally boil five eggs, take off the egg shells in the sink, eat two egg whites of the five eggs, and leave everything else for my sister. She likes her eggs sprinkled with salt, and also a bowl of cheerios, the milk drowning the tiny pieces inside. I prepare this for her every morning and I have it all laid out by 7:20 A.M. By now she is already heading down the stairs. She always watched me while she eats her food; she just stares at me, studying me.
I’m used to her stares. She does it every morning. While filling her mouth with food, she studies me. I’m like an animal to her; a creature so odd and frightening that it’s difficult not to stare. Everyone in my immediate family looks at me the same way—never speaking, just looking. I would ask what was wrong, but I was deathly afraid of the answer. I didn’t want to know. Let them stare; let them watch. I’m their caged animal; the horror only they can see.
She eats for a long time—she always chews her food carefully, very carefully, so I tend to make myself a cup of hot green tea. I pour a very small bit of honey into the green tea after it’s done, and I drink it slowly, leaning back against the counter tops, even though it hurts. She still watches me as she finishes up, and then places the bowl in the sink, and the trash in the garbage bin. She’s then ready to go. So I drive her.
We drive in silence. She tends to put in a CD from her favorite artist of the month, and I quietly listen to it, whether I was enjoying it or not. She likes the kind of music with low beats, and fast-paced singing. I finally get to her school around 7:35 A.M. She gathers her things, opens the car door, and jumps out. By this time, she turns on the heels of her shoes, looks up at me with those innocent, sea-blue eyes, and says, “Be careful.”
And then she’s gone.
I never understood what she meant by that. But, then again, maybe I did, but I just didn’t want to. Because facing the truth is something I never want to do.
Before I drive off, I glance down at my wrists.
♠ ♠ ♠
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