The Past

“It’s your fault she isn’t doing well in school!” a female voice screamed. I closed my door and jammed my earphones in.

“I’m at work all day, this is your job!” my father roared back to my mother. My music wasn’t loud enough.

Parents fighting. I typed into Google.

Divorce.

Unhappy. This first thing that popped up was a dictionary definition: “not happy” with an example: “unhappy marriage.” I slammed my lab top shut. I had to do something. I had to do something. I ran downstairs. My brother’s bike leaned against the wall. I had never biked before.

Sunshine. Air. Adrenaline. I was biking. Adrenaline. Arm. Ground.

I sat up. I was in the middle of the street. I saw my bike a strewn on the sidewalk. Pain seared up my forearm. I trudged home.

I peeled off my clothes. My arm had a scrape 4 inches long. I walked to the kitchen. My parents looked up wearily. They noticed nothing. They did not realize I had left the house. They did not see my arm.

Back in my room, I stared in the mirror. I stared at my arm. Notice me! I grabbed a scissors and pressed the edge against my arm. I breathed hard. I pressed down harder. I drew a line of red. My cut became a gash.

I opened my computer.

Divorce.

Unhappy.

Depression.

Self-harm. I clicked on a blog site. I saw arms covered in cuts. I saw thighs. I saw hips. I saw shoulders. I saw blood.

I’m a self-harmer. No, that’s just my imagination talking. I’m normal.

Winter break was over, and I returned to school where everyone seemed to notice the gash on my arm. I suddenly found myself happily skipping to classes, doing my homework, and talking with friends. Until my gash started to heal. So I made it reappear.

Fourth quarter. Third floor couches. I remember him walking by, and pausing. Always. He always saw me. Sometimes just a wave, a smile. But, more often, a longer interaction. When he asked a question, he actually wanted to know the answer.

“How are you?” my teacher asked.

“Fine.”

“In the movie, The Italian Job, ‘fine’ stands for freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional.” I laughed. “But actually, do you want to talk about it?” So I told him how I was thinking about coming out as bisexual at the school assembly on Friday. He told me I had his support, even if my best friend stopped talking to me.

I stood up at the LGBTQ school assembly with a “bisexual” pin. I cut myself that night. I never confronted my best friend about not supporting me. I cut myself every other day that week. I let her talk me out of asking a girl to prom. I cut myself every day. I watched my crush get asked by someone else. I cut myself at school. I invited no one to my house while my parents fought. I cut myself more. Rather than reaching out, I allowed my college-age brothers to distance themselves with work. I told no one about cutting myself.

“Did you hear…I can’t believe…Is it true…” I heard as I walked towards my friends. She dragged me aside. “You know what their saying? That you…that you slept with your physics teacher.” She looked at me hard, as if demanding why I hadn’t told her.

I continued cutting. I continued talking to my physics teacher named Aden. The guilt enhanced my introversion.

“Katherine, the principle called me today,” my mom told me. My hands shook as I closed the car door. Noticing the look of absolute shock on my face, my mom realized I knew nothing of what was going on. “There is a rumor about you going around…” I heard nothing else. A rumor. A rumor. I stared at my hands. A rumor. I felt sweat dribble down my temple. A rumor.

The meeting with the principle was the scariest moment of my life. In the end, it was confirmed that my teacher was just a close friend. It was confirmed that Holloway Cushman started the rumor. It was confirmed that she was planning on going to Kenyon. It was confirmed that your past always follows you.