Scars

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
To cut, you have to be brave. No matter how scared you are, it takes a strength to lower that knife, and a strength to let the scars heal. Yet you are scared enough to continue, and become addicted until...

Submitted: November 01, 2014

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Submitted: November 01, 2014

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Bostyn was at home, alone. Her mom was out drinking with her uncle, and her dad was clueless at work. Niether of her parents had seen the razor she had snuck into her bathroom. Nobody noticed when she bought the rope. Yet the people at school noticed her A+ grades, her purple broken glasses, her crooked nose. They knew more about her than she knew about herself. They noticed the way she dressed in all black, and how she read all day. They read her poems, her writings, and all that she did.

But they didn't appreciate her. Not how she smiled when she was dying inside. Nor did they like how she slurred when she talked. They broke her favorite cat earrings, and the glass figurine her grandma gave her that was worth thousands of dollars, and they laughed. Pointed their perfect fingers at her. And laughed. It broke her deep down inside. It scarred her heart, and made her pull back.

She had stopped talking, smiling, reading, and she was now just a shell of what she once was. A body wearing black, gaining weight with every day, eating her fears, her sorrows, but it led to more laughing, more pointing, more bullying. So she stopped eating. The entire time her parents didn't notice, still laughing, still drinking, still doing work.

Finally, she cracked, and she had bought it. The razor. Bostyn was sitting in front of the toilet, the lid up, as she marveled at the beauty of the blade. So shiny, sleek, and she ran her finger across the edge, bringing forth a drop of blood. The slight tap of pain delighted her, the first thing she had felt in a long time other than fear.

She clenched her fist, then spread out her fingers, and thrusting her arm over the toilet, her pale forearm bringing so much hatred. For being what she was. Bostyn, the smart, ugly, fat, nerdy, depressing girl. She wanted to be someone else.

She slid the blade across her arm, the line of crimson red captivated her, the ribbon oozing and sliding off her skin, plinking into the toilet, a work of art in the water. She lifted the tainted blade, and lowered the metal onto her skin once more, the pain pleased her, much better than fear. The razor once more pushed into her skin, this time pushing into a muscle, and a short spray of blood bursted onto the knife .

She didn't move, and she didn't care. It wouldn't be the last time she would cut, so she cleaned the blade in the toilet water with a square of toilet paper and got up, flushing the toilet and throwing away the toilet paper. Walking over to an unused drawer, she opened it, and pushed the razor into the very back, trying to hide her salvation, letting her blood drip onto the floor, not bothering to clean the drops of maroon on the white tile floor. Before leaving the bathroom, she turned to look at the drops on the floor, smiling at her art, and shut the door behind her.

? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ?

Grace Alsee had gotten home, parking her cherry red bike in front of her garage, and walking to her front door, unlocking it and heading inside. She was one of Bostyn's bullies, and she had broken the beautiful glass figurine that Bostyn had had. It had been an accident, really, and she had tried to apologize, but every time she came close to Bostyn, she would run away.

Grace hated herself for what she did, and what she was doing, but she couldn't stop. When she stood in the mirror, all she could see was a fat, ugly girl, with sad eyes and a broken heart. She had never told her friends, because apparently in order to be popular, you can't have any weaknesses.

Just because Grace was rich, smart, "pretty" and cool, didn't mean she couldn't have problems. She had a perfect life, yet for her, her life was all wrong. She wanted to be someone else, she wanted to be like Bostyn, to be able to pull off cat earrings without anybody noticing, to be in the background. But everywhere Grace went, it was like she was onstage, front and center.

Grace ran into her room, before slamming the door behind her and falling to her knees crying. The scars on her wrists had finally faded, so she could wear short sleeved shirts, but the fact that some people could tell that there once were scars, that scared her. It made her hate herself even more, and she wanted to die. To fade out in the distance. She knew her friends wouldn't mourn her, and that her parents would just indulge themselves in her little brother. She would be on the front page, probably. But then people wouldn't look at her any more. She would be free.

She wiped the tears from her eyes, and opened the doors to her closet, bringing out the tweleve-foot long jump rope, and tied a noose on one end, and making a little knot on the other. She pulled out the chair from underneath her desk, and tied the knot onto the little hook on the ceiling that held up her Christmas lights.

Grace jumped down from the chair, making sure that the rope was the right length to end her life, and she got out a piece of paper, and wrote to her mom, dad, granpappy, brother, and lastly, to Bostyn.

Placing the note on her pillow, she stepped onto the chair again, and fitted the noose snugly around her head, pulling her short blonde hair away from the rope. When the rope was comfortable on the delicate skin on her neck, she looked up to the cieling, and mumbled a prayer.

"Oh great God, please send a butterfly to my family if I am well, or have a leaf fall in front of the door in case I am not well. They will know.

God our Father,
Your power brings us to birth,
Your providence guides our lives,
and by Your command we return to dust.

Lord, those who die still live in Your presence,
their lives change but do not end.
I pray in hope for my family,
relatives and friends,
and for all the dead known to You alone.

In company with Christ,
Who died and now lives,
may they rejoice in Your kingdom,
where all our tears are wiped away.
Unite us together again in one family,
to sing Your praise forever and ever.

Amen. . . Jack I love you."

She wiped her last tear, and tipped over the chair.

? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ?

Quite some days before today, Bostyn graduated from college, and got her majors in math. Her mother couldn't make it, she had missed the plane flight with her boyfriend. Her father had come, and Bostyn had seen him crying. She didn't quite understand how someone could get so emotional of getting called to a stage, handed a rolled up paper and walking down a carpet "aisle." Bostyn had smiled that day, and maybe she could understand how her father had cried, proud of his daughter from pulling through all of life's burdens. She had been with her friends, and thrown her mortarboard into the air, rejoicing the freedom of her last moment of school.

Although she wasn't exactly free; she lived with one of her old roomies from sophomore year, because she couldn't support herself with the feeble job she had. You see, not many managers accepted her when they met her during interviews. They didn't appreciate the scars she had on her wrists, they weren't "ready to support someone who isn't capable of handling their own emotions." She had finally gotten a job as a cashier at Costco, and with kids staring at her wrists all two hours of her shifts, her job made her uncomfortable. But it was better than nothing.

So far, Bostyn had lived with her friend Julianne for almost six months, and with her job, her new life, and being a full blown "adult," she was tired, stressed, and irritated. She had recently taken multiple trips out of state, looking for jobs in different areas so that she could finally feel independant.

Making sure to wear long sleeves at each interview, she tried to hide what the managers didn't want, but they could tell. Maybe from the blue bags under her eyes, or the look of soft pain in her body that still hadn't worn off. But oh, those sneaky managers could always tell, trying to pick out the best in the lot. But each and every time, she never got the job.

That is, until she went to Bepcomi Co. The manager, Jack Alsee, was kind to her, and about the same age as her, maybe a bit younger. As soon as she walked into the room, he jumped onto his feet and shook her hand, then sat back down lazily in his arm chair, twiddling his hands and looking her warmly in the eyes.

"Ah, yes. Miss Bostyn. Have a seat," he gestured to another armchair on the other side of the room.

Bostyn nodded, holding her papers in her covered arms, and skuttled in her pencil skirt to the chair, and sat down comfortably, setting down her papers on her lap and biting her lip nervously. She looked up to see Jack looking at her, concerned. She smiled, trying to fake being comfortable, and he smiled, still a hint of worry in his eyes.

"Miss Bostyn there is nothing to hide. Also on the plus side, there is nothing to be afraid of. I am here to hire you, or turn you away, not to critisize you. now, look me in the eyes and tell me about yourself and what you are capable of," Jack smiled, resting his hands on the arms of his chair.

"Alright," Bostyn stuttered, and managed to speak, " I got my majors in math about three months ago, and I plan on helping with the money and planning of the money, because I seem to handle money well, not just because I have amazing capabilities in math, but because I have been working at Costco as a cashier for the past few years. I plan on really helping this company with all of the money, the customers, and such things like that because I had heard about the one customer who had sued the company and won in court for his money not being handled correctly," Bostyn finished, smiling at Jack again.

"Tell me Miss Bostyn, do you speak any other languages than English? We have many other facilities in different countries, and if you are to be handling all of the money in this company, you need to be able to communicate with the other incomers," Jack asked, leaning forward in his chair, and Bostyn could practically feel his eyes on her wrists.

"I speak French, Spanish, um, German, Russian, and a little bit of Chinese," she said, leaning backward with each word stumbling out of her mouth, "My family's pretty. . . spread around."

Jack looked alarmed. Sitting up straight in his chair, he ruffled his hair and turned back to her still shocked, "You'll only need four of those languages, Chinese, German, French, and maybe just a little bit of Spanish. The other one. . . well, we'll contact you when we have facilities in the areas that speak that language."

"So. . . does that mean that I get the job?" she asked leaning forward again, smiling and her heart bursting in joy. She had never had a well-paying job before, and this was definitely a nice job out of the jobs that all of her friends had ever had.

"Ha ha, Miss Bostyn. Not yet, and don't get too excited, you have to tell me about yourself before you're hired," he said with a coy smile, "but first, tell me about those scars."

Bostyns' smile immediately fell of her face, and she pulled the sleeves of her blue shirt higher over her wrists, trying to hide the puffy, pink scars that were smaller than two years ago. She fidgeted with the edges of her sleeves, and chewed her bottom lip, finally looking up at Jack with wet eyes.

"I cut. I was bullied. End of story," Bostyn sniffled, the memories rushing at her with sharp details.

"By whom, Miss Bostyn?" Jack asked, his voice gentle and kind.

"It was, uhm, Grace. I don't understand why. She um, killed herself when I was in high school. I just don't understand why any of that happened. Just, yeah, I. . ."

"Miss Grace Alsee?" Jack asked, his voice wet with sadness that he hid quite well.

"Your sister? Yes."

"You're hired."

? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ?

Grace could feel the rope snap taught, and the memories flooded her mind, her little brother, Jack, what would he think? It wasn't his fault, but she knew he would think so. In the last two minutes of brain activity she had, she saw herself growing old, a autiful young woman on her wedding day, married to some man named Phillip.

And in her soul she cried, watching all of her memories and what she could've been pass by like a movie screen, and then she saw her child, and watched him grow. She saw Bostyn get her job with her brother, she saw them together, and their first date. Their wedding, and she saw herself in the crowd, crying while her son held her arm. She saw her mother's funeral, and the day when her husband's plane crashed.

She saw what would have happened if she had not died. Then, she saw what happened since she did die. Her father committed suicide, just like her, and her soul screamed. Her mother passed away from a heart of grief, when Jack was just thirteen. She watched him go through the foster system, and how he learned to put on a mask of happiness. Yet, she watched him graduate, and become the main manager of Bepcomi Co. And she watched, the film of her family's life slipping and playing with dark colors and downcast eyes, and then Bostyn stepped into her brother's life, and the colors became brighter, the film lingered on each moment with her.

Jack's happiness leaked off of the screen and into Grace's soul, and Grace knew that Jack would be okay. He had Bostyn.

Grace closed her eyes, and turned away from the film. The burden of life, it's memories, the memories being made, the sadness entangled in the happiness, was lifted. Her soul was free from the burden of a body and it's life, and all of it's memories. Sure, some things would change, the day of her marriage never happened, her son never born. But she was free, and although her soul could become entangled in the affairs of God, she knew He was watching her.

At last, her soul opened it's eyes, to see her body swaying in the slight breeze of the open window. A life was taken, a life was lost, and some could see that as bad, but Graces' conciousness faded into the light before her, out into the rays of sunshine outside, and into, what she hoped to be, the hands of God.


© Copyright 2019 Evangelina Samuell. All rights reserved.

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