Wrists

It was near 7:00 P.M. when the sun was setting and I was sitting on my bed, re-reading a book about the impact of the massive Jew executions in Europe. I had my blinds cracked open and curtains spread to let some light fall onto the pages of my the worn pages, eyes too sensitive for the lamp light. An empty cup of green tea (since black coffee would’ve kept me up all night) sat on my nightstand, and other random mugs covered the floor by my bed.

I managed to devour two egg whites (and quickly threw out the yolk, to resist temptation) before my sister knocked lightly at my door. At first I wanted to lie down and pretend I was sleeping so she’d leave me alone, but something in the back of my head told me what she wanted was important. So I called out, “come in, Cheyenne,” instead.

She carefully opened the door, one blue eye staring at me before the rest of her frail body appeared. Her eyes ran across the room—the same way my mother’s did when she wanted to find something for me to clean—and then rested on my face. She looked a bit timid and hesitant, but she finally let the door swing gently against the door frame and entered my bedroom completely. “Hey.”

I gave her a weak smile, and then glanced back down at my book. I ran my eyes across the words, trying to read it, but couldn’t. My mind was too focused on the new intruder to pay attention to anything else. I could hear her soft footsteps approach my bed, and I forced myself to look up at her face. She had an unreadable expression. “What’s up?”

She slowly lowered herself on the edge of my bed and shrugged. “I was just bored in my room.” She reached for the book. I let her take it and look at the front cover. “You’re reading this again?”

“Yeah,” I grabbed it back from her and closed it rudely, dropping it back on the stack of other books. “And?”

I know I sounded a tad mean; a hurt look flashed through her eyes. I let out a deep breath and forced a smile. “Do you need something, Cheyenne?”

She stared at me for a long, long time. Normally I was used to her stares, but this stare was a needy, confused, scared stare. The kind of stare I hadn’t seen from her ever. My throat tightened, and I told myself to look away, but when she lowered her eyes to my wrists was when I snapped.

I pulled down the long sleeves of my nightshirt and crossed my arms, preventing her from staring any further. She looked back at my eyes, a look of slight horror. “Get out.” I said firmly, though my mind was racing, along with my heartbeat. “Get out, Cheyenne.”

“Are you okay, Graham?”

“Get out, Cheyenne.”

She continued to stare, unmoving. “If I have to leave I’m telling mom.”

I opened my mouth, ready to shout so many hurtful and truthful things I’d been holding back for so many years now. All of the things about her and the rest of the family never giving a fuck about me, about none of them caring about my well-being, about none of them wanting to bring my “issues” to light, about none of them wanting me to be in the center of the attention ever. But, instead, I closed my mouth and willed myself not to. It wouldn’t help; it’d just make things worse. Besides, she only cares now because she chose to. Not because she genuinely cared about me.

“Get out, Cheyenne.” I repeated, breathing shallow.

She gave me a hard look, daring me to take it back so she wouldn’t snitch on my about mom. But what could she tell her? That I hate myself? That I hate being this way? That I’m pathetic, worthless, a waste of cells? No. She couldn’t. Because everyone already knew. They knew, but pretended not to.

She got up slowly, gave me another look, and left the room.

I slept in my bathroom that night.