Pretty Arms
Pretty Arms
“Baby, why scar up your pretty little arms with those silver razors?” Brendon’s voice carried through the kitchen and into the living room.
I sat cross-legged on the couch, examining the bandages that he had, so conveniently, wrapped around my arms.
“Baby?” Brendon peeked his head in the living but I kept focus on the television.
“Don’t pick at your wrists, Ryan,” he watched as I picked at the bandages that were itching, annoying, and just plain bad.
I nodded, placed my hands in my lap and went back to watching the television program.
“It’s annoying,” I commented and lightly scratched at the white bandage around my left wrist.
“I know it is. You wouldn’t have to be wearing them if you didn’t decide to scar up your arms,” Brendon appeared next to me on the couch.
The thing about Brendon, he never, ever said the words cut yourself when he addressed my ‘problem’.
I didn’t say anything but instead, I started to flip through the channels. I mindlessly scraped my fingernail against the skin that was exposed.
Brendon’s hand fell over top of my mine and he sent a look my way.
“Stop it. Don’t do anymore harm, Ryan,” he laced his fingers between mine. I was half-tempted to jerk my hand away from his but decided against it.
Three days later it’s a repeat of that afternoon. I sat on the couch, one leg pulled under my body, the other resting on the floor. Brendon had the first aid kit beside of him as he sat on his knees in the floor.
“Baby, I wish you’d stop scaring up your pretty little arms with those nasty razors,” Brendon grabbed the antiseptic cream and the peroxide.
I kept my gaze on the floor beside of Brendon and flinched when he poured the peroxide over the fresh wound.
“Stop flinching, baby, I’m trying to help,” Brendon had a soothing tone to his voice. I closed my eyes and bit my lip while he applied the bandages.
This time he put medical tape over them so that I couldn’t bend my wrists, let alone get those ugly, white things off.
As if magically the bandages came off within a few hours. Brendon noticed when we sat down to eat dinner.
“Where are your bandages?” he paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.
“I took them off when I decided to shower,” I allowed this small lie to slide past my lips.
“If you keep taking them off the wounds are going to get infected and won’t heal properly, baby,” Brendon always referred to me as baby when I did the same stunt.
“They’re fine, Brendon,” I assured him and continued to cut my food into tiny pieces.
Exactly eight days later we sat in the emergency room at the local hospital. Brendon was right. The cuts did get infected, and they got infected bad.
“We’re gonna fix it, baby, I promise,” Brendon whispered as they led me back to examination room.
“We’ll get cream and medicine to help heal those nasty wounds. Then you’ll have beautiful arms, again, baby. Isn’t that great?” Brendon kissed my knuckles as he held onto my hand.
“I don’t want pretty arms,” suddenly the white tile in the hospital blinded me, suddenly my breath caught in my throat.
“W-why?” Brendon ran his finger tips over the old scars, the new ones, and the new cuts. I winced.
“Because I don’t deserve pretty arms,” I whispered.
I sat cross-legged on the couch, examining the bandages that he had, so conveniently, wrapped around my arms.
“Baby?” Brendon peeked his head in the living but I kept focus on the television.
“Don’t pick at your wrists, Ryan,” he watched as I picked at the bandages that were itching, annoying, and just plain bad.
I nodded, placed my hands in my lap and went back to watching the television program.
“It’s annoying,” I commented and lightly scratched at the white bandage around my left wrist.
“I know it is. You wouldn’t have to be wearing them if you didn’t decide to scar up your arms,” Brendon appeared next to me on the couch.
The thing about Brendon, he never, ever said the words cut yourself when he addressed my ‘problem’.
I didn’t say anything but instead, I started to flip through the channels. I mindlessly scraped my fingernail against the skin that was exposed.
Brendon’s hand fell over top of my mine and he sent a look my way.
“Stop it. Don’t do anymore harm, Ryan,” he laced his fingers between mine. I was half-tempted to jerk my hand away from his but decided against it.
Three days later it’s a repeat of that afternoon. I sat on the couch, one leg pulled under my body, the other resting on the floor. Brendon had the first aid kit beside of him as he sat on his knees in the floor.
“Baby, I wish you’d stop scaring up your pretty little arms with those nasty razors,” Brendon grabbed the antiseptic cream and the peroxide.
I kept my gaze on the floor beside of Brendon and flinched when he poured the peroxide over the fresh wound.
“Stop flinching, baby, I’m trying to help,” Brendon had a soothing tone to his voice. I closed my eyes and bit my lip while he applied the bandages.
This time he put medical tape over them so that I couldn’t bend my wrists, let alone get those ugly, white things off.
As if magically the bandages came off within a few hours. Brendon noticed when we sat down to eat dinner.
“Where are your bandages?” he paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.
“I took them off when I decided to shower,” I allowed this small lie to slide past my lips.
“If you keep taking them off the wounds are going to get infected and won’t heal properly, baby,” Brendon always referred to me as baby when I did the same stunt.
“They’re fine, Brendon,” I assured him and continued to cut my food into tiny pieces.
Exactly eight days later we sat in the emergency room at the local hospital. Brendon was right. The cuts did get infected, and they got infected bad.
“We’re gonna fix it, baby, I promise,” Brendon whispered as they led me back to examination room.
“We’ll get cream and medicine to help heal those nasty wounds. Then you’ll have beautiful arms, again, baby. Isn’t that great?” Brendon kissed my knuckles as he held onto my hand.
“I don’t want pretty arms,” suddenly the white tile in the hospital blinded me, suddenly my breath caught in my throat.
“W-why?” Brendon ran his finger tips over the old scars, the new ones, and the new cuts. I winced.
“Because I don’t deserve pretty arms,” I whispered.