Under Rose-Tainted Skies(51)

My legs are gearing up to go when I feel a sting in my thumb like I’ve been bitten by a fire ant. My nail’s broken through skin. There’s blood. My mind flashes back to last week and the well of scarlet pooling on my thigh.

It doesn’t mean anything.

It doesn’t.

I was just itching.

Everybody itches.

Everybody.

Except the answer to Dr Reeves’s original question was no. There was no itch. My eyes scrunch shut. I’m trying really hard to conjure a memory of a tickle, a fizz, a crawling sensation, something that would warrant the blood now crusting beneath my nails, but I get nothing. There was no itch, no reason to scratch myself senseless.

I jump up from my chair, hand stretched out in front of me, glaring at it like I’ve sprouted extra fingers. I want to get away from it but swiftly realize I can’t. So instead, I head to the sink, flick on the cold water, and wash away the blood. I snatch the soap, squeeze a gallon of the green liquid on to my hands, then start rubbing. The new wound stings, but I keep going until I can’t see marred skin through the thick cloud of bubbles. I rinse and repeat until my hands feel clean.

When I’m finished, I exhale a breath so loaded it shakes the leaves on the trees outside.

‘You’re laying this on me now? Right before my first date ever?’ I whimper. Trembling legs carry me back over to my chair. I plop down, plant my elbows on the table, and bury my forehead in my hands. I can see my reflection in the glossy tabletop. No make-up in the world is strong enough to hide this revelation on my face. I’d need cement, a sandblast, a brand-new fucking face. I slam a fist down on my reflection.

‘Norah, listen to me.’ Dr Reeves is drawing a tree on the table again. With a single sideways glance I axe it down. ‘It’s because of your date that I wanted to talk to you about this. Relationships are hard for anyone.’

We’re not even in a relationship, my mind argues, and I pout internally like a child. Of course I don’t correct her because I’m smart enough to know that, when it comes to a mind like mine, labels are moot. Feelings are involved and that’s really all that matters. Dr Reeves starts explaining that butchering your body isn’t uncommon in the fight to feel in control.

Like she’s dealing cards, she lays three brightly coloured pamphlets in front of me. They all depict smiling folk basking under a summer sun. They’re bright, cheery, shiny: everything self-harm is not. It’s a series called Coping Without Cutting. Subtle. I’m sure all of the kids feel comfortable reaching for these.

‘Take a look,’ Dr Reeves says encouragingly as she slides the first booklet a little closer to me. ‘Think of it like being prepared,’ she says. ‘You might not need it, but it can’t hurt to know a little something about what’s happening.’

The author of the booklet is some guy called Adrian Crowe. His name is written in Comic Sans because these guys are clearly down with the kids. I could breathe into a bottle of milk right now and turn it sour.

I peel back the first page, read the opening paragraph with my nose tipped so high I can smell the ceiling. I wish I could invest in the words instead of picturing myself being shut inside an asylum.

‘They’re autobiographical. These people talk about how they used different techniques to combat their own struggles with self-harm. This guy—’ She taps Adrian’s picture. He’s old, maybe late fifties, with white hair and glasses. He looks like he’s lived most of his life in a library. ‘He used to draw pictures on his skin when he got the urge to scratch. And this woman—’ She opens booklet number two and we meet Roxie Gaines, a girl only a little older than me but infinitely cooler with her bright blue hair and black make-up. ‘Roxie squeezed the stuffing out of stress balls instead of hurting herself.’ Dr Reeves abandons the show-and-tell, ducks down, and disappears inside her snakeskin purse. It’s faux; I asked the first day we met.

‘I got you something,’ she says, producing a brown paper bag. She tips the bag upside down, and half a dozen rainbow-dipped balls roll out. They bounce around on the table for a couple of seconds, but Dr Reeves corrals them with her arms, and they come to a standstill. ‘Stress balls,’ she says proudly. ‘I was thinking you could discreetly carry one around in your pocket and do what Roxie did.’

She picks up one of the rainbow-splattered rounds and squeezes it into a pancake. ‘The guy at the store told me they were almost indestructible.’ It’s adorable to watch her test this theory, teeth clenched, tugging and pulling the ball in all different directions. Admittedly, I’m wondering if I could break one.

‘Your turn,’ the doc says.

I pick up the ball that looks the most yellow. It’s spongy but has a coating that feels like clay. I squeeze it, and I’m almost disappointed when my fingers don’t pierce the outer shell regardless of how hard I push.

‘Norah, tell me what you’re thinking.’

‘I’m thinking if I take this, it will be like accepting what you’re saying.’ I’m finding it very hard to believe that this whole time I haven’t been in control of the one thing I thought I was.

‘Is that a bad thing?’ Dr Reeves asks, taking more notes.

‘That depends on whether or not I’m going to end up in a hospital.’ I can’t look at her, so instead I roll the ball around in a figure eight.