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“That I am,” Gibsie replied with a smile, only to frown a second later. “Hold up.” Narrowing his eyes, he gave Feely a wary look. “You didn’t ask Claire out when you were scampering around looking for a girlfriend, did you?”
“No, Gibs,” Feely chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. You go right ahead and keep onnotdreaming about it,” Gibsie replied in a warning tone. “Because I’m not as in control of my actions as he is.” He pointed to me while keeping his eyes trained on Feely. “And I’ll kill ya dead, Patrick Desmond Feely.” Gibs made a throat slashing sign with his finger. “Don’t let this angel face fool you,” he continued, pointing to himself. “There’s a killer lurking beneath. One that’ll kill ya stone dead if you try to take my Claire-Bear, ya hear?”
“I hear you, Gibs,” Feely replied, trying not to snicker, while I made no such effort. Slapping a hand over my mouth, I tried to stifle my laughter. “I promise you faithfully that I will never try to take your Claire-Bear,” he continued, tone laced with amusement.
“Good,” Gibsie replied, looking mollified. “Because I would miss you an awful lot if I had to kill you.” Smiling again, Gibsie waved a finger back and forth between us. “Now, kiss and make up.”
Repressing a groan, Feely turned to look at me. “I’m sorry for not telling you about Lizzie.” He blew out another pained breath before adding, “I got my answer, though, and I won’t ask her again. Not if she means that much to you.”
“She does,” I replied, still annoyed but willing to put it behind me if he was. “And I’m not a chicken,” I added, feeling the need to defend myself. “I’m just…I’m working up to it.”
“Fair enough. You keep on working up to it, and I’ll keep out of it.” Smiling ruefully, Feely extended his hand to me. “Does that sound like a fair deal?”
“Yeah, lad,” I replied, shaking his hand. “It’s a deal.”
DEEPENING FEELINGS AND COPING MECHANISMS
Lizzie
NOVEMBER 15, 1998
THE FIRST TIMEITOOK A KNIFE TO MY SKIN WAS LAST SPRING, AND IT WAS THE RESULTof an accident peeling an apple. The slice of the knife through my fingertip brought an instant onslaught of pain and blood. But it also brought a strange sense ofclarity. I remembered because that was a bad day and afterwards it was bearable.
The next time I hurt myself it was an almost accident with a bowl of piping hot porridge. I remembered it like it was yesterday. Sitting on the couch with the steaming hot bowl on my lap. Staring into the bowl, I slowly tipped it sideways to taste the lick of burn on my legs. Watching the thick, burning gruel seep through my tights, searing my flesh like a thousand needles.
The pain was instant, and it wasglorious.
The third time was no accident, even though it was the most plausible. Intentionally sitting on the fire hearth in my nightdress, with my toes directly in front of the roaring fire, lying in wait, I remained motionless every time a spark landed on my bare legs. It wasn’t until a larger knob of reddened coal landed on the hem of my nightdress that any of my family took notice of what I was doing. Even then, as my nightdress caught on fire and they quickly whipped it over my head, they didn’t question mymotives, putting my carelessness down to a reckless child getting too close to the fire.
Before then, I used to scratch and tear at my skin or burn myself in the bath when the pressure in my head got too much, butnothingI’d ever tried before compared to the peace I found from the sharp edge of a blade.
After that, I was a slave to the pain.
To the temporary relief from my pain.
The pain nobody could see.
The pain in my mind.
I was careful to conceal my scars from the outside world with stacks of bracelets on my wrists and oversized clothing. I protected my secret solace like my life depended on it, because in all honesty, on my really bad days, itdid.
My weapon of choice became the blade, and my flesh became the battlefield, where I waged an internal war on the parts of me that couldn’t be healed. The battle began on the inner side of my fleshy thighs, until there wasn’t any room left to fight, and by that stage, the battlefield transferred to my stomach, and then to my breasts, until settling on my wrists.
The temporary relief from mental torture led me to playing with knives while other girls my age played with dolls. I was clever to conceal, to cut just deep enough to find relief but not bring attention to myself. After all, it was attention that had started the war in my head.
I didn’t feel bad about it, either.
I was doing this for me.
I was trying tosurviveand had finally found a way to make it through the days without wanting to die.
“What’s wrong?” Hugh asked for the tenth time since I’d arrived at his house. “I know something’s wrong.” We were sitting inhis treehouse, where we weresupposedto be reading, except instead he was worrying.About me.
“Hugh, I’mgrand,” I replied for the tenth time. “Stop worrying.”
“I can’t.” He reached over and traced his finger over the part of my brow between my eyebrows. “You get a dimple right here when you’re worried.”
