The Dotted Line

Cut along the dotted lines.

They ran, child-sized sneakers hammering dull thuds into the pavement. They growled and hissed and screeched. The masks made them monsters.

I found one on the ground. The card stock was soggy with dew, and rugged crags emanated from the center where a shoe had fallen. There were two eyes, narrow pools of negative space, the outside corners tilted upwards in a menacing glare. Its original owner had neglected to give it a mouth.

I mentioned this to the one nearest to me, a boy who's name began with an A. I think he's on the football team now. Varsity.

“It doesn't have a mouth,” I giggled. “It can't talk without a mouth.”

“Of course it has a mouth!” he accused. “It's painted on, stupid.”

He roared and I trembled.

I tried to hide behind the mask I found, but it was broken and wrong. I needed my own. I followed the voices of the chaperones to find the materials myself, because my guide thought I was still in the bathroom. A pair of scissors, a length of string, a rectangle of thick, rigid paper. They sat me beside the other children and told me to cut along the dotted lines.

I ran my finger over the sheet's even surface. There was no line. Lip clenched between my teeth, I began to cut. I did my best to recreate the shape from memory, sketching the silhouette of harsh cheekbones and devil's horns with my nail.

It wasn't long before they started whispering. They never think I hear.

I hear everything.

“What is she doing?”

“She can't even cut on the line.”

“Stupid.”

I released my scissors and pulled my hands away. I understood. I couldn't be a monster like everyone else. Monsters have eyes. Monsters can see.

I felt arms around my waist, my weight slipping out from under me. It was Mommy, rattling words I didn't need to comprehend. She put me on the ground and examined my body for injuries. She was relieved, but I knew Daddy would be angry when he heard.

She scolded me. Mommy doesn't like it when I play with scissors.

I have learned since then. I have honed my skin to make up for what I lack, to sense the subtle shift in texture between paper and ink, the soft bump where the printer laid the words. Finally, I could find the dotted line, at age 16. Stupid.

Other lines are easier to locate. Creases, tactile guides that caress the blade as it runs their length. I have found them, and I will adhere to their paths.

The hands come first. I fill out the broken dashes on the underside of each knuckle. One, two, three, one, two, three. Then the palms. Head line, heart line, life line. The fibers separate in release too sweet to bare. Switch sides and repeat. Slippery heat coats the polished wood handle.

I move the knife across the curves that I once thought was my breast. They all say I have none. I don't know what this is, but it is a line and it must be cut.

Some of the lines had escaped my notice, but Daddy was nice enough to fill in the shapes for me. I trace the bruises.

My tongue never worked. It would batter itself against my teeth until it grew numb, but it made no difference. The taunts always continued. But I found a crease there, down the middle. Maybe, if I follow the instructions, just maybe. My throat goes hot as I drink my victory.

I run it along the intersection of my ear and my skull. I hear no whispers.

I paint down my collar bones, stroking towards my center. This is what art feels like. I must not let myself savor it, not yet. My knees quake. Time grows short. My wet fingers brush across the dent at the base of my neck.

Sometimes, there is a piece that you must cut out that you can't reach from the edge of the paper. The trick is to jab the scissors through, creating an incision to use as a starting point.

I cut myself a new eye. A seeing eye. A monster eye.

I saw Mom.

Mommy doesn't like it when I play with scissors.