Special to Her

The girl sitting on the bench had the expanse of greenery all to herself. Her fingers drummed against the hard cover of a tattered book. Occasionally, she would flick through it, the soft rustling of pages replacing the silence as her gaze skimmed over lines of embedded ink. Dear Thomas. Dear Thomas. The phrase repeated itself on each page. Dear Thomas, you spent the day with her again. She is so much more beautiful than me and I understand why you love her but it hurts. I want to be with you but you're already taken. Dear Thomas, today you wore a jacket so like mine we could have been matching but we weren't. You are so far above me, with your head in the clouds, that you probably didn't notice. I did.

Dear Thomas. Help me.

Burgundy marks were splattered across the white surface of the paper. Her fingertips softly drew the silhouette of the the blotches, retracing that night. Her breath picked up slightly, in, out, in, out. Her hands shook as she controlled her precarious breaths. She only had to wait a little longer. He would arrive soon, and so what if it wasn't going to be Thomas holding her hand and kissing her good night? Anyone would be just as good, not him but someone. Anyone.

She told herself that just a little is enough, just a little. Her fingers became more frantic but they no longer traced the splodges of congealed red. Instead they clawed at her wrist, tearing away at the thin scabs. Just a few more seconds, hours, days, months. She counted them silently in her head. A little longer. Then she'd be home in her room. The chunky, worn chimes of the old clock informed her he was late even as the first rusted flakes began to fall from her skin. Steel butterflies cut in her stomach. Show up,please, show up. Had she believed in God, she would have sent him a quiet prayer. Please, show up. Her gaze flickered back down to the page. Dear Thomas, I should probably stop writing to you. It's not good for me. I want to forget you and move on but I can't and, it hurts so much. Even when my knives are safely tucked away it's like I'm being stabbed. I want to disappear because if you don't notice why should I bother? You are everything.

She slammed the book shut, trying to recall why she'd written that, when she'd written it. In fact she could barely remember writing it at all. She could tell by the faint imprints on the page she'd been crying again. She vaguely recollected sitting on her bed, staring at her walls, thinking of him and it hurt. It hurt and she wanted to forget. So she'd reached across to her drawer and pulled out her razor. She'd contemplated it then lowered it to her skin, not deep enough to scar, just deep enough to summon the plumes of bittersweet claret, just deep enough to forget. She'd watched it track so beautifully down her arm and drop onto her book. She pictured that scene again and again until that staid voice interrupted her.

"Evie, are you alright?"