Missy. What are you
doing?
"
That couldn't be sympathy in Sue's voice. Sue didn't give a damn about Missy—she'd said as much ever since the school year started and Sue discovered that Missy was at the wrong end of the Socially Acceptable spectrum. Missy pulled away, slopping coffee onto the floor.
"I'm not suicidal," Missy said, "if that's what you're afraid of."
"Then what's that all over your arm? A messed-up tattoo?"
Irritation bled into anger. Missy shoved her sleeve back into place. "How'd you find out? You spying on me? Reading my diary?" Not that she had a diary, but still.
"The hundreds of texts and emails I got were a big clue." Sue narrowed her eyes. "Some party last night, huh?"
Missy felt the blood drain from her face. Trusting Adam had reduced her to nothing more than fodder for teen paparazzi greed and gossip. She'd known it would happen; one didn't emerge from the flash of cell phone cameras unscathed. But knowing and
knowing
were two different things. Sickened, she took a sip of coffee, trying for normal and failing. Even with all the sugar and cream, it was bitter.
"You look me in the eye," Sue said, "and you tell me you're not trying to kill yourself."
Missy closed her eyes. Sue didn't understand.
No one understood.
This was the moment. She could tell her sister about the pressure in her chest, about the way everything expanded into Too Much and threatened to drag her under. She could tell her that she turned to the blade because she wanted to live and sometimes pain was the only thing that kept her alive. She could tell her that she was terrified of things she couldn't even begin to name, that friends could be fickle and lovers could be false. She could try to explain all of that and more, and maybe her sister would understand.
But trust was as fragile and cutting as a crystal sword. Missy had bled too much already ... a nd she had one Sword too many.
So she carefully rebuilt the glass jar of her heart, fusing the shards into place until the bottle was perfect. She shoved in the feelings before they suffocated her: the embarrassment of being caught; the gratitude for Sue actually caring, even a little; the fear of what happened next; and the rage, above all else—rage over not being in control of her own life, over being manipulated for other people's amusement, over the sheer unfairness of it all. She pushed it all into the glass jar and sealed it tight, and then she opened her eyes and gently put down her mug. She was flat; she was empty. She had her dead face and her glass jar. Nothing could affect her anymore. She wouldn't let anything, anyone in. The world could rot and she wouldn't care.
She wouldn't care.
Looking her sister in the eye, she said, "I'm not trying to kill myself."
Silence, thick and cloying, finally broken by the sound of Sue's teeth grinding, grinding. "You think you're making a
statement,
maybe?" Sue hissed. "Well, your statement brands me too. Because this morning, all I am is the sister of a suicidal wannabe emo
freak.
"
Those words carved Missy's flesh as surely as her razor had ever done.
Sue blew out a ragged breath. "You know, I didn't believe them when I heard you were a cutter. I thought it was just Adam being a loser ex-boyfriend, being vicious just because. People exaggerate, I thought. Makes a better story. People lie for points. But it was
all true.
You take a knife to your skin." She sneered, her lip curling in derision. "You're a sick excuse of a sister. I'm embarrassed to know you."
Of course, that was when their father walked in. Missy stiffened, uncertain how much he had heard—and unsure whether Sue would keep their conversation private. Their father frowned at the two girls. "Enough with the fighting," he said. "You're sisters. Hug and make up. Then let's go, Missy. You're running late."
Sue grinned, bright enough to blind. She opened her arms wide, ever the good daughter.
Missy smiled, tight as piano wire. She hugged her sister, and Sue
doing?
"
That couldn't be sympathy in Sue's voice. Sue didn't give a damn about Missy—she'd said as much ever since the school year started and Sue discovered that Missy was at the wrong end of the Socially Acceptable spectrum. Missy pulled away, slopping coffee onto the floor.
"I'm not suicidal," Missy said, "if that's what you're afraid of."
"Then what's that all over your arm? A messed-up tattoo?"
Irritation bled into anger. Missy shoved her sleeve back into place. "How'd you find out? You spying on me? Reading my diary?" Not that she had a diary, but still.
"The hundreds of texts and emails I got were a big clue." Sue narrowed her eyes. "Some party last night, huh?"
Missy felt the blood drain from her face. Trusting Adam had reduced her to nothing more than fodder for teen paparazzi greed and gossip. She'd known it would happen; one didn't emerge from the flash of cell phone cameras unscathed. But knowing and
knowing
were two different things. Sickened, she took a sip of coffee, trying for normal and failing. Even with all the sugar and cream, it was bitter.
"You look me in the eye," Sue said, "and you tell me you're not trying to kill yourself."
Missy closed her eyes. Sue didn't understand.
No one understood.
This was the moment. She could tell her sister about the pressure in her chest, about the way everything expanded into Too Much and threatened to drag her under. She could tell her that she turned to the blade because she wanted to live and sometimes pain was the only thing that kept her alive. She could tell her that she was terrified of things she couldn't even begin to name, that friends could be fickle and lovers could be false. She could try to explain all of that and more, and maybe her sister would understand.
But trust was as fragile and cutting as a crystal sword. Missy had bled too much already ... a nd she had one Sword too many.
So she carefully rebuilt the glass jar of her heart, fusing the shards into place until the bottle was perfect. She shoved in the feelings before they suffocated her: the embarrassment of being caught; the gratitude for Sue actually caring, even a little; the fear of what happened next; and the rage, above all else—rage over not being in control of her own life, over being manipulated for other people's amusement, over the sheer unfairness of it all. She pushed it all into the glass jar and sealed it tight, and then she opened her eyes and gently put down her mug. She was flat; she was empty. She had her dead face and her glass jar. Nothing could affect her anymore. She wouldn't let anything, anyone in. The world could rot and she wouldn't care.
She wouldn't care.
Looking her sister in the eye, she said, "I'm not trying to kill myself."
Silence, thick and cloying, finally broken by the sound of Sue's teeth grinding, grinding. "You think you're making a
statement,
maybe?" Sue hissed. "Well, your statement brands me too. Because this morning, all I am is the sister of a suicidal wannabe emo
freak.
"
Those words carved Missy's flesh as surely as her razor had ever done.
Sue blew out a ragged breath. "You know, I didn't believe them when I heard you were a cutter. I thought it was just Adam being a loser ex-boyfriend, being vicious just because. People exaggerate, I thought. Makes a better story. People lie for points. But it was
all true.
You take a knife to your skin." She sneered, her lip curling in derision. "You're a sick excuse of a sister. I'm embarrassed to know you."
Of course, that was when their father walked in. Missy stiffened, uncertain how much he had heard—and unsure whether Sue would keep their conversation private. Their father frowned at the two girls. "Enough with the fighting," he said. "You're sisters. Hug and make up. Then let's go, Missy. You're running late."
Sue grinned, bright enough to blind. She opened her arms wide, ever the good daughter.
Missy smiled, tight as piano wire. She hugged her sister, and Sue
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