Free Shattered: A Shade novella by Jeri Smith-Ready Page B

it’s done. I couldn’t possibly feel worse.
    I
search my bare arms and chest for the perfect spot, then decide this needs to
stay hidden. So I remove my pyjama trousers and sit
on the toilet lid, then position the razor blade against my thigh, where the
thick, dark leg hair will cover the scar. But I’ll know it’s there, which is
all that matters.
    The
first small cut makes me gasp and shudder. I slice again, this time in a
careful arc. Deep breaths help steady my hand and give it the control it
requires.
    My
heart beats faster. This is what I need. I can never write, speak, or scream what
they did to me, but I can carve it on the one thing they didn’t break: my body.
    Two-thirds
of the way through the 3 , I notice
I’ve formed a sort of Z , like my
initial. A sign I’m doing the right thing. A sign we’ll always be one.
    I
keep going, putting their mark on the outside where it belongs, pulling it from
the inside where it’s killing me. A knock comes from somewhere, but my mind is
singing a march of triumph melded with a symphony of mourning, so I don’t
respond. I am Here and Now at last.
    The
door swings open. ‘Oh. Sorry, I didn’t—’ Martin starts to retreat, then
stops with the door half shut. I can see his face in the mirror as he freezes.
    He
comes back in and quietly shuts the door behind him. ‘Put down the knife.’
    ‘It’s
not a knife, it’s a ra —’
    ‘Put.
It. Down.’
    ‘But
I’m not finished.’ I’ve only just done the 3 and still need the A . Besides, my
entire body is humming. Can’t he see it in my eyes? They’ve never felt so
bright.
    Martin
slowly raises his hands. ‘Just take a wee break? I need to talk to you about
something, and that’s distracting.’
    Seems
a reasonable request. ‘ Awright .’ I drop the razor
into the sink. ‘I should clean that.’
    ‘Got
it.’ Martin snatches it up, calmly rinses it, then sets it back inside the
cabinet. Then he retrieves a box of bandages and gauze. ‘You’re a fuckin ’ mess, ye know.’
    ‘It’ll
look cool once it’s healed.’
    ‘Mm-hm.’
He kneels beside me and rips the packaging off a square of gauze. ‘I won’t hurt
you, I just need to …’ He presses the gauze against the cut. ‘There. Okay?’
    ‘Okay.’
His hair smells of cigarettes. ‘You’re still smoking?’
    He
scoffs and presses harder. ‘Now’s really not the—’
    ‘ Ow . Careful, don’t smear the three.’
    ‘I’m
not smearing.’
    ‘You
are, you’re—’ My voice catches as I see how much blood seeps into the gauze. Fibre by fibre , the white
cotton drowns in red.
    God,
it’s everywhere – streaming down the back of my knee, over my heel,
pooling on the brown and green sandstone tiles. ‘Martin, wh -what
did I—’
    ‘It’s awright , mate. It’s awright .’
He says this again and again as he staunches the flow, then cleans the wound.
‘Seems we’re always bleeding around each other, aye? First me on the treadmill,
now this.’
    ‘But
yours was an accident, while this was—’ I’m too overcome with shame to
finish the sentence. ‘Please don’t tell Mum and Dad.’
    ‘Tell
them what?’ he asks, tearing off a piece of bandage tape.
    ‘Thank
you.’ I look away, to the array of cotton items on the sink. ‘I used to count
the days with Q-Tips. When I was … in there. I’d save one every night when they
dimmed the lights, keep it in my pillowcase.’
    Martin
doesn’t reply right away, just tapes my bandage. When he finally says, ‘Clever
of ye, mate,’ his voice is strained.
    We
quietly clean my spilled blood off the floor and the sink – this room
looks like the scene of a homicide – then I step back into the soft
flannel trousers.
    ‘Now
I’m glad you prefer unlocked doors,’ he says as he puts away the bandages and
gauze. ‘I wouldn’t have liked to break this one down to save you.’
    If it
were locked, he wouldn’t have known I needed saving. I wonder, would I have
known in time to save