What We Give and What We Get

Having snapped back into reality, I stared in shock at his spasmodically trembling form. He was curled into a ball on the floor, protecting himself from my blows and insults. I just stood there, my mind trying to register what I had already done and almost done. I was shaking violently, and my foot was raised for what could have been a bone-cracking kick.1

As I lowered my foot to steady my shaky body, he rolled over onto his back and his eyes came into view. The terror was evident and made me cringe but there was also something else there. It looked like understanding, like he knew that I was more afraid of myself than he was. I cringed visably again because that was worse than the fear was or the hatred would have been; That I didn't deserve.2

I felt the hot tears poke at my eyes and knew I couldn't keep them back. I turned towards my room and mechanically went in. I had barely closed the door before the guilt flooded over me. I didn't deserve his love. I didn't deserve anything more than a six-foot-deep whole right now.3

Realizing I was on the floor, I got on my hands and knees and crawled over to my bookcase. I rummaged around agrily for a minute until I found what I was looking for. After making my way over to my bed, I flipped the small blade over and over in my hands. I crawled up onto the matress. Then, I pulled the hem of my T-shirt up and pressed the cool, filthy razor to my abdomen, one of the only places yet to be marked. Closing my eyes tightly, I pressed the sharp metal down hard on my pale skin and let my hand guide the newest mark.4

I winced slightly at the light sting as it broke the skin and drew the dark crimson liquid. The warm blood started coursing down my stomach and I removed the blade from my skin. Disgusted with myself for the second time in half and hour I threw the small intrument across the room where it hit the floor with barely a sound.5

I heard a quiet gasp and my eyes popped open. He was standing in the doorway with a frown on his face. He stood there for a moment, staring at my midsection and blood-stained shirt. I sat there waiting for a reaction until he finally tip-toed the rest of the way into my room and over to the bed, where he sat down next to me.6

Sticking a delicate hand on either side of my face, he rubbed the tears off and said, "You're bleeding," in that meek little voice that reassured anyone who heard it everything would be just fine. Then, slowly, with the care of a mother or a doctor, he wrapped his skinny arms around me and proceeded to cry with me. 7

I could feel the sting of his salty tears in my fresh wound and my own started to flow with a renewed vigor. I had no clue as to how he was so knowing and I didn't really care. I didn't know how he could love so freely after all the world had put him through but I don't think it matters. I didn't really know anything except that I wanted to say "I'm sorry" and "Thank You" but that I couldn't seem to get the words out. I knew they wouldn't have been enough even if my throat had been working but the one thing I'm sure of was that he knew, he knew that words couldn't have done my feelings any justice.