Status: Cautiously updating..
Cigarette Stains
Tracing Names
My fingers instinctively reach for the rough spot on the table where a word I have etched into my mind is carved. I trace it until I think my fingers are bleeding and then a bit longer because it is familiar and I need the familiar so desperately.
I still smell like the sea and I think that might be because I slept in my car last night. And no matter how much I try there is always remanets of the beach and that night on my seats sinking deep into my bruised skin. I can still smell the sand in-between my fingers and the salty water on my legs, the smell comforts and disturbs me at the same time.
I pull the beanie on my head down tighter as I wait, tracing the name of some girl I have never met, for my biology teacher to show up. I almost expect to feel my hair but remember as my fingers reach for nothing, that in a fit of sadness and anger I had cut the hair I once refused to cut. When I was seven I had decided that all the prettiest girls had long hair, and I had wanted to be a pretty girl so badly. So no matter how much my dad begged I refused to cut my hair. When I turned nine I no longer wanted to be a princess and cut my hair to my shoulders, where for the past seven years it has sat, until yesterday.
I had sat at three in the morning waiting for the lilac walls of my bedroom to turn black like the ones that surround my heart and swallow me taking a pair of blunt kitchen scissors to my hair. I had hesitated a second before cutting off the hair that reminds me of everything that happened last summer. I had taken my naturally blonde hair and found the brightest blue hair dye I could and lathered it until my scalp burnt. Trying to rid myself of everything that I once was.
As the hair dye had swirled down the drain I had decided that whatever happened that night has gone with it. As the hot water had burnt my pale skin I had decided that I would not cry, not even as the hair dye got in my eyes. I decided I would never cry again because tears are useless, and no matter how much I cry I never feel better. I had decided that instead of wondering what happened I would find the truth and get even.
I still remember the day my dad taught me to ride a bike. And I still remember the name of the song he used to play when writing his first novel so I know with certainty I will never forget the morning after. I know I will never forget the morning the beach stopped being lovely and inviting and became the home of scattered memories and lost innocence.
I know I won’t ever forget and I had decided in that shower with my eyes burning and my skin begging for cold water that I will not be the only person that remembers. I will find whoever left me there in my safe place and make them remember every agonizing detail that I can’t.
I am still tracing the name on the table when a pair of books hit the desk next to me. I jump startled at the sudden noise and look up to see a boy covered in more tattoos than most grown men smile at me. I don’t recognize him. He is new; I heard Kelley Jenkins whispering about him at her locker this morning, some boy from the big city with priors and a cute butt.
I don’t care about any of this, all I care about is that he cannot sit here. I have spent the summer isolating myself from every person I know and there is no way he is going to undo all the work I have done.
“This seat is not available,”
“Why?” The boy asks, with a grin that makes me think of the beach and how tumultuous it can be under all its peaceful calm.
“Just isn’t, besides Kelley Jenkins has been saving a seat for you and won’t shut up about it,” I tell him, he continues to stare at me and I think maybe my hair is showing from under my beanie. Self-consciously I reach for it but it is still hidden,
“I don’t want to sit next to Kelley Jenkins,” The boy replies, I turn back to the carving that reads Celia and trace it a few more times before replying,
“I don’t care; you just can’t sit here,”
“Alright class welcome back,” A booming voice announces walking into the classroom, I look up at my teacher Mr Brownstowe, “Ah you must be the new kid,” he says referring to the boy who has still not left my side. “Take a seat,”
And so he does, continuing to stare at me. I stare out the window and try to remember the smell of the beach because I think I am going to cry and I promised myself I wouldn’t cry anymore. I wish I was under the stars counting them and trying to fall asleep not in class with blue hair and a black heart.
“I’m Casey by the way,” The boy whispers, as we begin some basic theory to start the new school year. I want to tell him that I don’t care but I don’t, something stops me. I think it is the girl from before that night at the beach that answers him. I am not sure all I know is I am seeing the stars and they are wonderfully beautiful.
“I’m Cassidy, but don’t ever sit next to me again,” Casey laughs but I am not joking. When I reach two hundred loops of the name I will stop tracing, but two hundred comes and goes and my fingers still follow the loopy scrawl.
I do not stop tracing the perfectly ordinary name until I catch the skin on my finger on one of the sharp corners of the letters and blood falls forward. It is in the blood that I start remembering and forgetting. Because that night started and ended with blood and that is enough to pull me away from the name as if it has burnt me.
As I watch the blood pool on my finger I remember the first snippet from that night and as much as remembering scares me forgetting scares me worse, because I need to know what happened on the beach that night.
I need to know so I can smell the salty sea air and not want to throw up.
I just need to know.
I still smell like the sea and I think that might be because I slept in my car last night. And no matter how much I try there is always remanets of the beach and that night on my seats sinking deep into my bruised skin. I can still smell the sand in-between my fingers and the salty water on my legs, the smell comforts and disturbs me at the same time.
I pull the beanie on my head down tighter as I wait, tracing the name of some girl I have never met, for my biology teacher to show up. I almost expect to feel my hair but remember as my fingers reach for nothing, that in a fit of sadness and anger I had cut the hair I once refused to cut. When I was seven I had decided that all the prettiest girls had long hair, and I had wanted to be a pretty girl so badly. So no matter how much my dad begged I refused to cut my hair. When I turned nine I no longer wanted to be a princess and cut my hair to my shoulders, where for the past seven years it has sat, until yesterday.
I had sat at three in the morning waiting for the lilac walls of my bedroom to turn black like the ones that surround my heart and swallow me taking a pair of blunt kitchen scissors to my hair. I had hesitated a second before cutting off the hair that reminds me of everything that happened last summer. I had taken my naturally blonde hair and found the brightest blue hair dye I could and lathered it until my scalp burnt. Trying to rid myself of everything that I once was.
As the hair dye had swirled down the drain I had decided that whatever happened that night has gone with it. As the hot water had burnt my pale skin I had decided that I would not cry, not even as the hair dye got in my eyes. I decided I would never cry again because tears are useless, and no matter how much I cry I never feel better. I had decided that instead of wondering what happened I would find the truth and get even.
I still remember the day my dad taught me to ride a bike. And I still remember the name of the song he used to play when writing his first novel so I know with certainty I will never forget the morning after. I know I will never forget the morning the beach stopped being lovely and inviting and became the home of scattered memories and lost innocence.
I know I won’t ever forget and I had decided in that shower with my eyes burning and my skin begging for cold water that I will not be the only person that remembers. I will find whoever left me there in my safe place and make them remember every agonizing detail that I can’t.
I am still tracing the name on the table when a pair of books hit the desk next to me. I jump startled at the sudden noise and look up to see a boy covered in more tattoos than most grown men smile at me. I don’t recognize him. He is new; I heard Kelley Jenkins whispering about him at her locker this morning, some boy from the big city with priors and a cute butt.
I don’t care about any of this, all I care about is that he cannot sit here. I have spent the summer isolating myself from every person I know and there is no way he is going to undo all the work I have done.
“This seat is not available,”
“Why?” The boy asks, with a grin that makes me think of the beach and how tumultuous it can be under all its peaceful calm.
“Just isn’t, besides Kelley Jenkins has been saving a seat for you and won’t shut up about it,” I tell him, he continues to stare at me and I think maybe my hair is showing from under my beanie. Self-consciously I reach for it but it is still hidden,
“I don’t want to sit next to Kelley Jenkins,” The boy replies, I turn back to the carving that reads Celia and trace it a few more times before replying,
“I don’t care; you just can’t sit here,”
“Alright class welcome back,” A booming voice announces walking into the classroom, I look up at my teacher Mr Brownstowe, “Ah you must be the new kid,” he says referring to the boy who has still not left my side. “Take a seat,”
And so he does, continuing to stare at me. I stare out the window and try to remember the smell of the beach because I think I am going to cry and I promised myself I wouldn’t cry anymore. I wish I was under the stars counting them and trying to fall asleep not in class with blue hair and a black heart.
“I’m Casey by the way,” The boy whispers, as we begin some basic theory to start the new school year. I want to tell him that I don’t care but I don’t, something stops me. I think it is the girl from before that night at the beach that answers him. I am not sure all I know is I am seeing the stars and they are wonderfully beautiful.
“I’m Cassidy, but don’t ever sit next to me again,” Casey laughs but I am not joking. When I reach two hundred loops of the name I will stop tracing, but two hundred comes and goes and my fingers still follow the loopy scrawl.
I do not stop tracing the perfectly ordinary name until I catch the skin on my finger on one of the sharp corners of the letters and blood falls forward. It is in the blood that I start remembering and forgetting. Because that night started and ended with blood and that is enough to pull me away from the name as if it has burnt me.
As I watch the blood pool on my finger I remember the first snippet from that night and as much as remembering scares me forgetting scares me worse, because I need to know what happened on the beach that night.
I need to know so I can smell the salty sea air and not want to throw up.
I just need to know.