My father was upset, and I realised after her death that he also loved her. Perhaps even as much as I did. But he was just stupid enough not to show it, not to be around for us more, actually help us in the ways that mattered most. He fell into a pit of despair called his office, and rarely showed himself to anyone, including me. He had immersed himself too much in his work that apart from his general work, it also became his coping mechanism for her sudden passing.
From afar, I watch myself, my younger self, spend late, late nights lying awake in pitch-blackness. I hear the clanging of the rickety cubicle walls as I struggle into one of them to throw up; the sounds are making it hard to breathe, almost like I can taste that same bile in my throat, blocking my airways. I feel as sick as my younger self. I gasp loudly; I suddenly relive a dream; a dream where my mother dies… again. And again. In the hospital bed, under a sterile white glow, caged within pasty white walls, the constant beeping of the monitor like an alarm in my head.
My head is going to explode.
I can't do this.
There's me leaning against my bathroom wall, looking as if I'm in a daze. But then I'm having a panic attack, and I'm gripping tight my small blade that I cautiously plucked from a pencil sharpener. I'm crying, sniffling, my tears and snot spread messily all over the place. It doesn't matter because no one can see me, and my father wouldn't care enough to look for me, crouch next to me, lay a hand on my cheek, pick me up and off of hell, like I know my mother would.
I'm cutting.
Again and again, because each time, the new pain of a new wound blocks out the old pain of an old wound. The blood is scarlet, it runs down my wrist, settles stubbornly in the creases of my hands, drips onto my knees, onto my shorts, on the floor. Then I cry harder, because I realise how disappointed in me my mother would be.
All over again, I'm wandering to the hidden headquarters of the Reprisal for the very first time, when I didn't know what to expect, where I met my mates, Boss, Ally, the Crew. Ally's smile flashes in my vision. Or maybe they're stars. I love Ally's smile, and everything about her. From her pitchy singing voice to her flowy dresses to her undefeatable optimism. From above the canopy where I watch, I turn my head away as Ally presses younger me against a tree and lays on my lips my first kiss. I remember how chapped my lips were that day; I had a habit of biting the skin off of them. It made them look wrinkly and old.
I see Boss and my crew in our headquarters, tired after hours and hours of planning, but there's a glint in all their eyes. A glint of passion, of desire to make the world right, of strong comradery with each other. In the room beneath me, Boss is allowing me to carry out the mission. He isn't smiling, but his mouth twitches up for a split-second when I release a whoop of joy. Boss hands me my first handgun, then whisks Ally away for a private chat, in which she'd find herself partnering with me for the mission to avenge my mother.
My mother. Who stayed with me when she had the right to leave her husband with her messed up son.
I grip the note tightly in my palm. I imagine the edges as the sharpest blades, squeezing even tighter, picturing blood filling my hand, the numbness, the dull pain, the throbbing of my heart reaching the tips of my fingers.
I haven't cut in ages. My scars are old now, they've turned white, like when you leave a cheap toy in the sun for too long and it loses all its colours. That's me. An almost worthless toy, in the wrong family, with the wrong people, in the wrong places at the wrong times. And I'm all dried out and useless now.
My scars are white and useless. And what they hold inside… behind the rushing veins of blood and behind the bones: bitter memories.
I scrunch up my eyebrows. I'm done with myself. And I think I need a strong reminder of why the scars are there in the first place.
Paper is a blade. I want to bury it in my arm, watch closely as the thin edge slides through the first layer of skin, then another, then another, and past all of it… I want it to hit bone. I want it to hit where it hurts most. I need it to hurt. Hurt hard. I need it to hurt so much that I can't keep my eyes open without screaming, without throwing up all over myself, without reliving all of my most painful memories.
Without remembering why I'm here.
Mum.
Not just yet, though. I need a little more time. Then I'll be done. Then I can cut and no one, not even… Tasmin, beautiful Tasmin… can tell me what to do, point out my scars, beg me for answers to the secrets I should rightfully keep from her.
I blink back tears. Already, my cheeks are stinging from my earlier round of eye drool, and I'm not planning on having any permanent damage because I couldn't get over myself.
Sharp paper away from my wrist and folded and tucked into my pants. Then I pick up the book I snuck into the bathroom with me. It's as heavy as it looks, and it's as normal as it looks, but there's something hidden within it. Past the flippable pages, tucked between page-like cardboard and foam… a handgun, shined to a gleaming finish.
This is it, I think to myself, tomorrow, I'll avenge you, mum. And tomorrow, Tasmin, I'll break my promises.