What's So Good About Picking Up The Pieces?

I woke up feeling lightheaded and dizzy. The bed I was lying on top of was shaking slightly, and I got a bit worried, but I still kept my eyes closed. I could feel the sunlight trying to seep through my tightly closed eyelids. I did my best to ignore it, but the more I tried, the more the light irritated me. I was still tired, and I did not feel like moving, as I felt comfortable where I was. I laid there for a few more minutes until I decided I had had enough of the annoying light and opened my eyes. Expecting to see my familiar pink walled bedroom, I instead saw the inside of my mother’s SUV. I was a bit confused until I remembered, we were moving. My mom was on the wheel humming slightly to some old 80’s hit that was playing on the radio, eyes trained on the road. I sat up slowly, still feeling a bit lightheaded, and saw a sign on the highway that said “Baltimore, 20 miles ahead.” My mom noticed I was awake and said with a smile, “Morning Nicki! We’re almost there. The mover guys texted me a while ago saying our stuff’s in the house already. There are some apples in the back with you if you want some.”

“Thanks mom.” I replied, reaching for the apples as my stomach grumbled, practically begging to be fed.

“Are you excited?” my mom asked, “We’re finally getting to start fresh.”

“I’m a bit scared to be honest, but at least I can try to make friends while we’re here.”

“That’s good dear. At least then you won’t be cooped up in your room all the time.” We both chuckled at that. I was always in my room doing something, like playing guitar or just reading. I didn’t have many friends back in L.A. The only people I really hung out with were the other people in the marching band. I played the snare drum, but I can play a regular kit just fine. I really just hung out with them out of social conformity, which made me feel bad since they were genuinely nice people. I guess I just really liked my own company rather than others’, so it didn’t bother me. Most people didn’t talk to me either; most of them thought I was a freak because I listened to rock and punk music rather than conformist pop, had a spider-bite piercing and didn’t give a fuck about boys, makeup, or anything most girls worried about constantly. I didn’t really give a shit though, because I was never going to see them anymore anyway.

When I had finally finished my apple, we had reached our new house. The neighborhood seemed nice enough. It was clean and the houses were decent. My mom had made sure we moved to a safe neighborhood this time. Let’s just say our old neighborhood wasn’t the best. And by that I mean it was filled with the exact people that you didn’t want to mess with, as in drug dealers, crack heads, gang members, hopeless alcoholics, the list goes on. I was lucky I didn’t have a run in with any of them, my mom, not so lucky. There were countless nights in which she’d some home with bruises and cuts everywhere, and we’d all worry about them, especially my older brother Quinn and my dad. They weren’t here anymore though. One day my dad had picked up Quinn and I from school and some dipshit drove under the influence and crashed into the car. They died on impact, but since I was in the back, I came out with only bruises, cuts, and a broken leg. That had happened almost a year ago. I was still not over it, nor did I like to talk about it. I still blame myself for it, especially since I was the only survivor. Many nights I’d have nightmares about the crash and wake up in a cold sweat. That’s actually the main reason as to why we were moving. Too many things reminded me of them at home, and I couldn’t bear it, and I knew mom felt the same. So, when Mom got a phone call offering a slot as a photographer for some magazine based in Baltimore, she jumped at the chance, and I supported her. For one, we could start anew, and secondly, being a full time photographer was my mom’s dream job, and I would never stand in the way of that.

As my mom parked the car in the driveway, I took into our new house for the first time. I wasn’t ready to call it home just yet, but it looked like I could call it that soon. I was fairly large, with two floors. All the houses in the neighborhood were a light beige, and slightly Hispanic in architecture, and I liked it a lot. All the houses were similar, but each house was different in their own way, but the biggest difference in them all is that each house had a different design engraved on the front door. Our front door’s design was a cute little floral design, with flowers sprouting from each corner and meeting at the center to form one large flower. We were at the end of the street and whoever lived next door had an eagle on their front door.

I brought my boxes from the back of the car and headed inside. They house was decent, the front door lead to the living large living room, which lead to some stair leading up and a kitchen, already filled with appliances. My mother told me she would fix up the house while I could set up my room. I offered to help but she wasn’t having any of it, explaining that she could do it alone since the house was already furnished, and that she was getting the largest room, and I could have the second largest, making the smallest one a guest room.

I headed up to my room and set up my things. A couple posters on my wall, clothes and shoes into the drawers, jewelry and flat iron on the vanity mirror, laptop and notebooks on my desk, guitars on the stands, duvet and pillow on the bed, toiletries in the bathroom, etc.

When I finished, I walked into the bathroom, and the box stared at me. I hadn’t done it in so long, and all my frustration was dying to come out. I reached for it, opening it to reveal my stash of silver razors. I picked one up drawing the blade to my wrist and cut and cut and cut. I did this until I was satisfied, and immediately after the guilt washed over me. It was like a cycle; pain, longing, cutting, satisfaction, guilt and repeat. I was disgusted with myself for doing it, but I just couldn’t stop. It started after the crash, and no one knew. It was my dirty little secret. I then took a long shower and watched the blood drip down from my wrists. I stepped out and dressed into my skinny jeans, black converse, and oversized sweatshirt that had belonged to Quinn and put on the multiple bracelets I always wore to cover up the scars.

I walked downstairs to find my mom talking to another woman her age. They both had big smiles on their face, and laughed at whatever joke was made. The sight made me smile, seeing how fast my mother was making friends. My mother notice me standing by and called me over, and introduced me to the woman, who apparently was our next-door neighbor.

“Hello dear,” she said with a thick British accent, “I’m Mrs. Gaskarth, but you can call me Isobel.”

“I’m Holmes, Nicki Holmes,” I replied with a smile, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Well Isobel here has invited over to her home for dinner in a while, isn’t that great?” my mother said, “She even has a son your age! You'll both be seniors in a few days!”

“You can come over if you want. You both are dressed up anyway, and Nicki can meet Alex’s friends as they’re over anyway. And we can continue our conversation at my place.” Isobel said, a mile plastered onto her face.

“That’d be brilliant! Is that okay with you Nicki?”

I simply nodded and we headed over to the Gaskarths’ home.