embarrassment. The voices of disappointment in my head are at an all-time high as I stumble away from the mirror, trying to get away from the ugliness shown there.
On unsteady feet, I make my way to the bathroom and begin looking through the cabinets. Towels and washcloths litter the floor and I toss them aside in search of something to help me dull the noise that threatens to consume me. I am frantic by the time I remember the razor in the shower that I used earlier. For the first time, I don’t bother to try to hide what I’m doing by using my thighs. Instead, I pull up a shirtsleeve and push the razor against the sensitive skin of my inner arm. I feel a small bite of pain as it pierces my skin. The protective guard keeps it from cutting deeply, but it’s enough to give me what I need.
I lean back against the wall as the familiar peace fills me. As I look down at the bead of blood that wells from the cut, I suddenly feel sick. What is wrong with me? How had I let it come to this? I’d have been better off dying than living this way. I was hurting myself over the style of my fucking clothes.
Then I hear his voice and I know there is no way to hide what I’ve done. He sounds upset and pained as he says, “Rose, baby. Why didn’t you come to me?” Why didn’t you come to me? Why did he ask that? I’ve never had anyone to turn to. I couldn’t understand why he asked that question. That’s it. I drop the razor to the floor and sob into my hands. I hear him leave the room before returning a minute later. He gently pulls my recently injured arm toward him and cleans it before putting a bandage on it. He sighs as if not sure what to do before pulling me into his arms. I melt against him and give in to the tears of desolation that seem to be never-ending. He doesn’t say a word, just lets me get it all out. When I’m down to the occasional jerking hiccups, he calmly picks me up and sets me once again on the bathroom counter. He pushes my skirt up to get closer to me. A cool washcloth is pressed against my eyes as he cleans the makeup that is now completely ruined away. I wince as I see smudges of it on his neatly pressed dress shirt. “You’re going to need to change,” I say huskily as I point at the mascara smears dotting the expensive fabric.
He tosses the washcloth into the nearby hamper and presses closer between my legs. Cupping my face, he murmurs, “It doesn’t matter.” As he stares into my eyes, he rubs his thumb almost absently across my bottom lip as if trying to discern what’s going on in my head. “I can’t stand you hurting yourself, sweetheart. What brought it on this morning?”
My first instinct is to say something flippant and pull away. I’ve never shared this part of me with anyone else, and I feel raw and exposed. I take a deep breath, along with a leap of faith, and tell him the truth. “It’s the outfit,” I admit, feeling beyond absurd that something so trivial drove me to cut. Surely other women never feel this way.
He’s quiet for a moment as he ponders my words. He then shifts back slightly to inspect me from top to bottom. “You look beautiful,” he says quietly. “But you don’t have your shield. You’re exposed for the world to see.”
“What?” I blink up at him, puzzled by his statement. Is he trying to say that my outfit is too revealing?
He surprises me by leaning down to press a brief kiss on my upturned lips before replying. “You’ve hidden behind the pearls and the demure sweaters for a long time. Other than Lia and Jake, it’s kept people at bay. You’re intimidating as hell when you want to be.” He laughs. “I’ve no doubt that you can stop some poor bastard in his tracks with a single look. You’re sophisticated beyond your years, and I’m sure that’s exactly how your parents wanted it. And after a while, you used it as a way to control those around you. Instead of insecurity, they only saw cockiness and confidence.”
I gape at him,
On unsteady feet, I make my way to the bathroom and begin looking through the cabinets. Towels and washcloths litter the floor and I toss them aside in search of something to help me dull the noise that threatens to consume me. I am frantic by the time I remember the razor in the shower that I used earlier. For the first time, I don’t bother to try to hide what I’m doing by using my thighs. Instead, I pull up a shirtsleeve and push the razor against the sensitive skin of my inner arm. I feel a small bite of pain as it pierces my skin. The protective guard keeps it from cutting deeply, but it’s enough to give me what I need.
I lean back against the wall as the familiar peace fills me. As I look down at the bead of blood that wells from the cut, I suddenly feel sick. What is wrong with me? How had I let it come to this? I’d have been better off dying than living this way. I was hurting myself over the style of my fucking clothes.
Then I hear his voice and I know there is no way to hide what I’ve done. He sounds upset and pained as he says, “Rose, baby. Why didn’t you come to me?” Why didn’t you come to me? Why did he ask that? I’ve never had anyone to turn to. I couldn’t understand why he asked that question. That’s it. I drop the razor to the floor and sob into my hands. I hear him leave the room before returning a minute later. He gently pulls my recently injured arm toward him and cleans it before putting a bandage on it. He sighs as if not sure what to do before pulling me into his arms. I melt against him and give in to the tears of desolation that seem to be never-ending. He doesn’t say a word, just lets me get it all out. When I’m down to the occasional jerking hiccups, he calmly picks me up and sets me once again on the bathroom counter. He pushes my skirt up to get closer to me. A cool washcloth is pressed against my eyes as he cleans the makeup that is now completely ruined away. I wince as I see smudges of it on his neatly pressed dress shirt. “You’re going to need to change,” I say huskily as I point at the mascara smears dotting the expensive fabric.
He tosses the washcloth into the nearby hamper and presses closer between my legs. Cupping my face, he murmurs, “It doesn’t matter.” As he stares into my eyes, he rubs his thumb almost absently across my bottom lip as if trying to discern what’s going on in my head. “I can’t stand you hurting yourself, sweetheart. What brought it on this morning?”
My first instinct is to say something flippant and pull away. I’ve never shared this part of me with anyone else, and I feel raw and exposed. I take a deep breath, along with a leap of faith, and tell him the truth. “It’s the outfit,” I admit, feeling beyond absurd that something so trivial drove me to cut. Surely other women never feel this way.
He’s quiet for a moment as he ponders my words. He then shifts back slightly to inspect me from top to bottom. “You look beautiful,” he says quietly. “But you don’t have your shield. You’re exposed for the world to see.”
“What?” I blink up at him, puzzled by his statement. Is he trying to say that my outfit is too revealing?
He surprises me by leaning down to press a brief kiss on my upturned lips before replying. “You’ve hidden behind the pearls and the demure sweaters for a long time. Other than Lia and Jake, it’s kept people at bay. You’re intimidating as hell when you want to be.” He laughs. “I’ve no doubt that you can stop some poor bastard in his tracks with a single look. You’re sophisticated beyond your years, and I’m sure that’s exactly how your parents wanted it. And after a while, you used it as a way to control those around you. Instead of insecurity, they only saw cockiness and confidence.”
I gape at him,
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