Strings

TW: self-harm

I breathe out. The words have escaped. I can let myself go. She may be hurting now, but I’ve been holding on by a thread and it’s begun to fray.

My face flushes red with anger. I can feel my blood start boiling. Balling my fists so hard that they pierce the skin on my palms. I stare into his eyes. For a second my mind goes blank and I’m no longer listening to the ever flowing stream of ignorance coming from his lips. “Hey! Are you listening to me?” I look at the floor racking my brain for any semblance of an answer, “Did you not hear a word that I said?” His words are laced with vexation. 

Hesitantly glancing up at him I mutter, “Maybe if you had any sense of when to stop lecturing me I would have been paying attention.” I turn to walk away in fear of the repercussions that remark would result in. Again I 

tune out his words and run out the door. 

“I demand respect! You wouldn’t be alive without me! You would be nothing without me.” Ignoring him I keep walking, faster now. I need to get away from here. Anywhere else is better. How long will it take him to realize that respect goes both ways? I don’t owe him anything. Someday I will be able to walk out the door and never turn around. Alas, I am too young to make an escape. 

I think, then I stop, “Why? Why do you deserve respect while I don’t!”

“Because I said so.”

“At least I don’t make you want to fucking kill yourself,” What an arrogant dick. With that, I lose all patience. So I leave. I can feel the warm pavement on the pads of my feet as I walk down the road, for I had no time to think about shoes in the heat of the moment. I don’t know where I’m going, but it’s freeing to get out of that damn house. My breath starts quickening and the tears well up in my eyes. I’m suffocating. I rake the hair out of my face and look up to the sky. My legs give out and I collapse right there on the side of the road. My hands shake and I can’t get a handle on my emotions. I think about my life, about life itself. To me it feels like people are made up of strings. Haphazardly sewn together and thrown into the cruel world. And the string starts out strong, as rope, intertwined and sound. But as time goes on, the rope deteriorates. And when that final thread is cut, well, so is the life it held in the balance. It’s all too much. How do I make it stop? How can I get the world to stop spinning? 

After a while of staring into the cracks of the pavement, a pair of shoes is dropped in front of me. I look up and see my sister, Marina, “I thought maybe you could use a little help,” She shrugs.

With a sniffle I utter, “I know what you’re gonna say. That he’s not worth it. That I should stop fighting back,”

“I-” She stutters. 

Cutting her off, I press forward, “I know that Sophia and Virginia figured that out before us. And I know that you’ve given up fighting, but that just feels wrong. Like after all this fighting I’m just letting him win,” As I say this I lace up my converse, getting increasingly more aggressive as the words are let go.

Her eyes shift away from me. She reaches out her hand and helps me up. Standing before her in the golden light of the sunset. Instinctively, I pull her into an embrace. There, in her arms feels like home. It’s just that, she understands me. At least she thinks she does. With a long sigh, she pulls away, holds onto my shoulders, and looks me in the eyes, “Hey, what do you think about going to get ice cream?”

It takes me a second to respond as all I can focus on is her touch on my shoulders. Thankfully I’m wearing a sweatshirt, so she can’t feel the speed bump scars on my arms. I nod in response and we head off.

In the car, she begins to play music. As she swerves along the wooded road. The last lights of day peek through the shady cover of the trees. But, as the enthusiasm in her grows, as does my grief. I lift my tongue to the roof of my mouth to dam the tears that will inevitably fall. Her face turns to me and while still mouthing the lyrics her face falls. Marina won’t stop asking if I’m okay. I just ignore her. Until of course, she slams the car to a halt as she pulls into a side street, “Hey,” She places her hands on either side of my face to pull my focus, “Hey, what’s wrong Chloe? You need to tell me so I can help you. Is it about dad?”

It depends on how you look at it. In part, it’s about me, but he triggered it. That man had cut so many of my strings and still I insist on fighting. “No, it’s just. Well kinda. When we argue about politics I get so upset,” I avert my eyes and hesitantly say, “Especially because I’m bi.”

“Is that it Chlo?” A smile grows on her face, relieved. However, she catches on. She knows that's not it. Marina gives me the look that I can’t resist giving in to. 

“N-no, that’s not it. I’m also non-binary,”

“So you use they/them pronouns for you now.” The confusion in her eyes is visible and I try to explain. She nods, trying to understand. When we pick up our ice cream, we sit for a while before heading home. It’s Marina’s last visit until she moves back from school and she wants to spend as little time as possible at the house. We’re even going to her graduation party next week. But for now, we’re just sitting on a bench, watching the sky get darker until the air chills our skin.

The next day I wake up and find that Marina’s already left. I rip myself from the sheets of my bed and spot old bloodstains on my mattress. Sighing, I sit in front of my desk, putting on the same eyeliner I do every day for school. Funky pants on and miscellaneous accessories acquired I head off with Virginia. She says from the driver’s seat, “What was all that about last night with Marina?”

“I was pissed at dad for saying some intolerant shit and trying to convince me he didn’t vote for Trump. So I ran away, Marina found me, we got ice cream, and I kinda came out to her.” 

She laughs, turning into the school's parking lot, “Yeah, he always just says he ‘voted for America’. But yeah the whole coming out thing is great too,” Giggling I push the car door open. Virginia has never really had the gift of words. Every so often she asks if her response to my coming out was okay. As if she’s unsure about it. Though simply being tolerant is enough to me. When we reach the school we part ways and go off into different hallways.

I sleepwalk through the day until I get to go to Spanish class. It’s the only one I actually enjoy. I sit next to my friends and our teacher has an… interesting flare. He loves to talk about the year he spent teaching in Central America. Especially how he got stabbed in Guatemala. I put up peace signs as I approach my friends, “Hey babes what’s up,”

They chime in, “Hey Chloe,” As usual I go off on a tangent about anything and everything going on in my life. Usually, Alex stays out of it, keeping to her work. Meg just laughs, to a point where she almost falls out of her chair. But Maddie, she listens. She’s one of the people who keeps me off the ledge. She turns my string into rope. In class she just lets me ramble on and on. I try to incorporate them into the conversation because I feel like I talk about myself too much, but one hundred percent of the time they have nothing going on. They say that they’re content just listening. What can I say? I am an excellent storyteller. 

Our teacher walks in, “Hola chicos and chicas,” I look over to Maddie as he says this. It’s kind of an inside joke because I’m an enby and I never know how to express that in Spanish. She smiles at me and we start our class. 

That day when I drop onto my bed and ignore everything except my breath. Meditation has always helped to cool me down. Specifically, because my father passed on his short temper to me. I drop the needle on my favorite record and start the process of cleaning my room. 

I jump around, organizing, cleaning, and cleansing my room. Not only of trash but also of negative energy. To do this I light up my candles and strategically place different crystals around the room. After I finish a ring comes from my phone. It’s Marina. She started a facetime on our family group chat. First, I think about how stupid group calls are and decide not to join, but I’m bored so I guess I will. 

When I pick up the view is from Marina’s side. Her phone is in her hand dropped to her waist. Because no one else is on, I get ready to speak and let her know I’m here. But then I hear a deep voice in the background say, “So she doesn’t want to be a girl? Has she always been more masculine?” I hope that’s not about me. By now I realize that this call was an accident.

Marina chimes in, “No, I mean I don’t really understand why anyone would use they/them pronouns. It’s kind of weird,” I shatter. The cries are subtle at first. I’m about to hang up, but then she starts up again, “But to be honest my little sister is really depressed and suicidal.”

I’ve never pressed a button so quickly. It takes copious amounts of willpower to not explode at her there and then. The way the words spiral from her lips feels like a betrayal. She says everything as if she pities me. Like I’m just a sob story to tell at parties for attention. It’s hard for me to process. Marina had outed me. It’s supposed to be my choice. I get to choose who knows and who doesn’t. Not to mention that she called me her sister even though I came out to her last night. She knows that I’m not a woman, but nevertheless she refers to me as such. Plus, she thought it would be a good idea to discuss my mental health with someone I don’t even know. And the way she said it. Like it was an excuse as to why I don’t align with the gender binary. Like it’s an explanation for why out of the four siblings I’m the most fucked up. My phone buzzes with texts from Marina. Apologies.

I get up from my chair and grab a blade. It’s small, from a pencil sharpener. I try to remember how much progress I’ve made. How important these past forty days have been. I glance towards the bloodstains on the sheets, branching from the slits deep in my thighs. Then I remember the first time I had done it. It was two years ago when my boyfriend had broken up with me in a text. Looking back on it, it feels stupid, but then. Then it was everything. I remember the stinging on my skin. I remember watching, fascinated by the way the blood spilled from my veins. And suddenly, the cold metal meets my skin. The collision leaves me with goosebumps. I suffocate in tears as the blade skates over me. A burgundy trail sails down my arm. It isn’t enough. It just isn’t enough, so I do it again. And again. Until virtually every scar on my body is reopened, gushing with my blood. My head falls into my hands desperately. Blood staining my face as I weep into my palms. Looking up at the mirror before me, drudging water up the wells of my eyes. Tears run bloody down to my chin diluting the crimson. I lay my head down and just try to control the pain.

The next day I’m off to Marina’s graduation. I climb into the car with my sister and father, trying to keep my cool. Especially since less than a week ago, I ran away from home because of his arrogance. He tries to talk to me, but I ignore the olive branch. Fifteen years of being accosted by that man is enough. I tap on the dripping window, watching as raindrops fall from the sky. The dark clouds beckon me and for a moment I think. What would happen if I simply jump. Out of this car. Out of this world. Out of this life. I wonder if anyone would care. If they’d miss me. At least I know Virginia would. She’s the best built-in best friend I could ever ask for. I snap out of it as we pull off onto a side road of the college town. Herds of people flocking to restaurants to celebrate the soon-to-be graduates. I look down at my phone and put in my earbud. Disconnecting from the world.

The next morning I wake in the hotel with the sun’s beams resting on my cheeks. My mother yells from across the room, “It’s time to rise and shine dolly,” I love my mom, she’s the exact opposite of my father. Thank god for that. She deserves the whole world. She certainly deserves better than a hot-headed husband that doesn’t know how to treat other people. 

“Alright,” I respond. I rip myself from the pullout and let out a yawn. Turning my head, I see Virginia. Already fully dressed. I head over to my bag and pull out the black skirt and fishnets I had packed. In the bathroom, I change and zip up a brown hoodie to cover my chest. 

Within an instant, we’re off. Once again jamming into the car and driving. However, this time the sun is shining and no clouds are within my view. We take a harsh turn and park in the driveway at the back of the house.

I ascend the steps that lead me to Marina’s room. When I enter, Summer is standing there, drink in hand. She looks me up and down and pleads, “Chloe, will you just put on a sundress. I’m sure Marina has plenty you could borrow,” 

I look at her, then glance down at my boots. Furrowing my brows, I return, “Why would I change?”

“Your outfit is inappropriate. You look like a slut,” She raises her painted on eyebrow with the last word. My eyes narrow, is she kidding? How dare she. I walk into a room and the first thing she does is scoff at me. Taking a glance around, I spot Marina’s roommates. They all wore sundresses. Every one of them was the same length as my skirt.

“Sophie. What the hell is wrong with you. I get that you grew up where anyone different was weird and scary, but it’s not 2009 anymore. My outfit isn’t inappropriate. You know how I know that. Everyone here’s dresses are the same length as my skirt. Hell, even yours is the same length. Just because I don’t simply dress like everyone else doesn’t mean that I’m a slut. But of course, you would be the one to say that shit to me. I’m not surprised, I’m just disappointed,” I push past her and walk into the kitchen.

The next few hours are painful. My parents constantly introducing me. Using my birth name and calling me their daughter. Of course, I’m still in the closet, but it doesn’t hurt any less. Every few minutes, a random adult comes up to me and tells me that they're hot just looking at me in a sweatshirt. With all that on my mind, I escape to the stairs.

After a few minutes, Marina approaches me. I look away from her, “Chloe? Are you okay?”

I look at her and suddenly another string is severed, “No Marina. I’m not okay,” Tears coat my eyelids and lashes. I continue, wiping them from my face, “Because today. Today I have been misgendered, called a whore, reminded of how much I hate my name, how it hurts me to hear it ring in my ears. But worst of all, people keep yelling at me to take off my sweatshirt. And I can’t fucking do that because if I take it off people will see my scars and judge me more than they already do. And I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about that this summer. Until you accidentally called me. Until you mocked me, outed me, and told others about my mental health. And I relapsed. Now every scar is fresh. Now I can’t look at you without a wave of anger rushing over me. And you know what's fucked up, I feel bad for you. The tears on your face make me feel worse. I deserve better than that,”

“Chloe, I…”

“What! What can you say? The damage is already fucking done. I can’t believe you did this to me,” I slump back on the banister and remain there. I cling to the frayed thread. As I breathe, my string is restored.