Sharp Edges

The wind didn’t knock me over but breezed right through my bones. Goose bumps rise on my skin as I involuntarily shiver from the cold starting to infiltrate my beautiful fall days, days where all I needed to do to feel warmth was look up. Winter is coming soon.

“June!” A voice says, and I feel an elbow interlock with my own, just as soon as I push open the doors to Lemwood high, my 7-5PM forced job for two more years. Not that I have anywhere better to go. I’ll get a diploma just like everyone else and be one more fish in the pond that eventually fades into the dull mediocrity of most lives. I’ve thought about death a lot, more than most, since as long as I could speak. It’s like a voice whispering in my ear, begging for answers to the point of it all. The best I can do is continue filling my time to distract that voice until I finally do kick the bucket.

“Hey Brisa! Are you headed to your guidance counselor meeting?” I say, turning towards my friend. A strand of her purple hair falls on my shoulder, sliding off a moment later.

“I am.” She says, sighing. “She’s probably going to recommend me to the school therapist again.” She rolls her eyes, letting go of my elbow.

“That’s what happens when you let your grades plummet like that.” I say. Brisa went from a solid 3.0 GPA to failing all of her classes within the quarter semester because of her newest, first boyfriend.

“She just doesn’t get what it’s like to be in love.” Brisa says, looking up towards the sky. “Nothing matters more than him.”

“Not even education?” I muse.

“You’ll understand when you find your special someone.” Brisa says, knocking my shoulder lightly.

If I find a special someone. I envision my finger nails digging into my arm, dragging all the way from tricep to forearm, so sharp that a thin red line forms all the way down.

“Speak of the devil.” Brisa says, looking ahead. I look up and see her boyfriend, a misunderstood emo boy who can skate. Brisa grabs hold of his arm and he pulls her towards him. They start making out, and I divert my eyes away from the scene.

“Catch you later, June!” Brisa calls out behind her. I raise my hand in a half-hearted wave. Brisa probably wouldn’t miss me if I was gone. She’d be too busy locking lips to notice that I wasn’t there for our 15-second walks down the hallway.

I pull open the door to the guidance counselor’s office for our quarter-semesterly meeting. While waiting for her to call my name, I smooth my skirt and check my makeup with the small mirror in my bag. My face looks clear and bright-hazel eyes and thick, blonde hair running down my shoulders all the way to my elbows. An image of my blonde hair being mixed with red, catching on to the wound briefly fills my mind.

“June.” A kind woman with framed glasses calls out. I look up at her and smile.

“Hi Mrs. Saudia.” I say, following her into her office. She shuts the door closed behind me as I plop on to the seat across from her desk. Mrs. Saudia starts pulling up my grades and class schedule while I sit with my hands in my lap.

“Let’s see…” Mrs. Saudia says, looking at her computer. “I’m not worried about you, June. You’ve always been such a stellar student.”

I politely smile and look down at my hands. “Thank you..” I say. My eyes land on a jaw-style staple remover sitting on top of the desk. The sharp tips glimmer and shine, pulling me in like a siren beckoning me towards the light. The tips are sharp-sharp enough to make my skin itch.

“I was right!” She exclaims suddenly, smiling at me. I look back up at her. “Straight A’s across the board. I assume you have everything figured out for the classes you want to take next semester?”

I pull out a paper. “Yes, I have all the classes I want to take right here.”

“Perfect.” She says, beaming at me.

Behind my eyes, I feel like an old wagon trudging through mud. Too old to only be a sophomore in high school-more like a retired woman who has nothing better to do than contemplate life, impatiently waiting for death to swoop in and put her out of her endless thinking.

Is there anything wrong with me if I don’t actually act on my thoughts?

Maybe everyone thinks of dying and bleeding just as much as I do. The only abnormal part would be to take a sharp edge to skin, to actually see the rich, red blood dripping down otherwise smooth, perfect skin.

After I leave Mrs. Saudia’s office, a pang of hunger hits my side. A turkey sandwich with some chocolate milk sounds good right now. I think they have turkey sandwiches on the lunch menu today. I walk down the Lysol smelling halls and turn into the noise of the loud chatter coming from the cafeteria. My usual table with Brisa and the rest of the cross country girls is filled, except for the spot where I usually sit. I grab my sandwich and chocolate milk, then head over to them.

“And then,” Brisa says, pausing for effect. “not only did he pay for my movie ticket, but he also opened the door for me!” She says, squealing.

“No way!” Another girl at the table replies, her mouth dropping open wide like a fish.

“Anyways, how was your day June?” Brisa says, looking at me.

“It was good.” I say. “Nothing too special. I got my class schedule figured out for next semester.”

“Oh, are you taking AP physics?” Brisa asks, taking a bite out of her cheeseburger.

“Yes, I am.” I say. “Are you?”

“Yesss.” Brisa draws out. “We can suffer together.”

I take a bite out of my turkey sandwich, nodding along with her.

Before cross country practice, the coach has us all huddle up in a circle to pray. While he prays for us all, I look down at the wet, mushy grass below me. A breeze rustles past my skin, and my body begs me to just start running already. I can understand why people like religion so much. In order to stop the existential dread of life, people invented a God that solves all of their problems. Tired of life? Don’t worry, you’ll get into heaven later. Don’t feel loved? Don’t worry, God will always love you. Have no purpose? No worries, your only purpose is to serve God. Simple as that. Piece of cake. No need to think of who you want to be when God tells you who you are.

When I start to run, my legs feel weighted down with bricks. Every step feels awkward and clumsy until about ten minutes in, when my legs start to loosen up. I intake breath after breath, trying not to focus on how much longer I have to go. I think about tripping and rolling my ankle, falling onto the dewy grass and inhaling the earth. From there, I would limp back to the starting line like a fallen hero. But I don’t do that. I keep running, tears forming in my eyes from the pain of it all. The pain of what, I don’t know.

“Good time!” The coach exclaims when I get back to the starting point. Relief fills my lunges as I stagger to a stop, filling my lungs with air. I feel lightheaded, crazy, on top of the world. I feel like I’m hallucinating happiness when I look up to the sky and see only goodness, the breeze flowing past my heated skin like a fresh drink of water. The sky is so constant. Never changing.

“Keep up the good work.” Coach says, patting me on the shoulder before I leave. I nod and smile at him.

When I get home, the smell of lasagna wafts in through my nose, smelling like heaven.

“June!” My little brother exclaims, running up to me with that innocent, dimpled smile of his. I kneel down and pick him up.

“Hey, you little rascal, what are you doing without any pants on?” I say, holding him up like Simba.

“Pants are uncomfy!” He squeals, giggling from being held so high up.

“June, don’t hold him up so high. He could fall.” My mom says, standing in the kitchen doorway with an apron around her waist. I put him down.

“He’s a big kid; he can handle it.” I say, looking down at him. “Right, DJ?”

“I’m a big kid.” He repeats, firmly shaking his head up and down.

Before eating dinner, I step into the shower, peeling off my wet, sweaty clothes. I see my shaver sitting innocently right next to the soap. If I pressed hard enough when shaving, I would cut myself. I pick it up, examining the small blade inside of the plastic, gently running a finger along the edges.

There’s nothing wrong with me if I never act on my thoughts.

“June, how was school?” My father asks across the dining room table. I shove a spoonful of lasagna in my mouth before answering. The warmth of the cheese makes me sigh inwardly, a welcome reprieve from the cold outside.

“It was good.” I say. “I ran a PR at practice today.”

“Attagirl.” He says, his big Nietzsche mustache curling upwards as he smiles. “We’re so proud of you.”

When I get back to my room, I pull a shoebox out from under my bed. Removing the old pair of tennis shoes in the box, I grasp the shiny silver knife underneath. It’s taunting me, how sharp it is. I’m tired. No one will ever have to worry about me. No matter how much I suffer, none of it will matter because I will never display it. If I never display it, then it doesn’t exist. I hold the knife out, positioning it right in front of my wrists, bent at the perfect angle. I’ve practiced this before.

There’s nothing wrong with me if action never follows.

The air stops moving, suspended in time, as if one wrong move will be the final straw.

I lift the knife. It gleams like the moon on water at midnight.

What if I want there to be something wrong?