This Little Game We Like To Play

“You told them!” Quinn screams at me in the middle of the hallway.

“What was I supposed to do? Do you want me to let you die?” I yell at her. Why can’t she just understand what she’s doing to herself, what she’s doing to me?

“Anything but that! Why did you do that?” she cries angrily. Our parents where out. My parents were trying to comfort and consul her parents about what to do.

“I love you, Quinn. I don’t want to lose you!” I confess what I’ve felt toward Quinn since we were thirteen. “I’ve loved you for so long.” I hold her face between my hands and look her in the eye as I tell her.

“Liar! You’re the one who made me this way with your remarks on my weight. You’ve always hated me!” She yells. She’s so wrong. “This is just another one of these little games you like to play!”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong! I’m right! I finally figured out your problem, Angel. You’re sick and twisted and you get pleasure from my pain!” her words sting me like one thousand bees. “You don’t love me, you don’t even like me! You’re just messing with my head...as always!”

“I never said anything because I was afraid. I do you love.”

“Afraid? Of what? Me figuring out your game?”

“No, of you reacting like this, Quinn! You’re beautiful, you’ve always been beautiful, everything you do is beautiful...expect for this. This is wrong and it needs to be fixed.”

“That’s why you made my life a living hell since we were toddlers, right? ” she laughed bitterly.

“Pretty much! I had your attention! That was the only way I ever got your attention! If I was nice to you ignored me! At least when you yelled you were looking at me!” I said honestly.

“I can’t believe you, you really think I’m going to fall for another one of your idiotic mind game?” she shook her head. Strands of her hair stuck to the tears soaked skin of her face.

“I love you.” I said the words again. I love the way it feels to tell her how I’ve felt for years. It’s almost like a drug. I just need her to say it back. “I love you so much, Quinn.”

“Stop it.” she covers her ears.

“Please Quinn.” I hug her close to me. “Say it.” I run my hand over her long golden brown locks of hair. She tries to push me away but she has no strength.

“No. Stay away from me. I don’t ever want to see or talk to you again.” she pushes weakly against my chest. I give her what she wants and let her out of my embrace. She storms off and slams her bedroom door behind her. Rejection hurts, especially rejection like this. I go to my room and do the only thing I know how to do deal with emotional pain. I reach under my mattress for the blade. It’s wrapped in a white bandana. Spots of dried blood stain the white cloth. I know I shouldn’t do this but I continue doing it anyway.

I place the shiny blade on my table. I undo my belt and slid my jeans down and then push my boxers down on the left side to expose my hip. I ran my left index finger across the mutilated skin of my hip. The past two weeks destroyed the pink skin of old scars that covered my hip. With the blade positioned between my index finger and my thumb of my right hand I hold my breath and dig the blade deeper into my skin than I ever have before. I let out a relieved sigh once I saw the blood pouring from the wound. I’m a hypocrite. I try to make Quinn stop her hurting herself then I turn around and hurt myself.

Having the physical representation of the pain I was feeling was one reason I did this. The pain surging through my hip was enough to override the pain of being rejected. I make another deep gash and sigh contently from the sting. I watch the blood flow from the cuts and into the black material of my boxers.