Entry 4: Saving Me
Helen brought flowers to my room today. She brought flowers, and she hugged me and told me I was beautiful. I don’t know how or when this became our routine on mornings after mostly sleepless nights, but years later, the feeling is no less overwhelming than it was the first time she hugged me, the first time she told me I was beautiful, the first time she held me while I cried. Some days I wonder what would have happened if I had not met her that night, if she had not been watching me. I doubt I would even be here without her intervention. I certainly didn’t want to be.
***The Sanctuary. That’s what Helen calls it. She says I’ll be safe here, that I don’t have to be afraid anymore. No more living on the streets. No more selling my body to any man who will pay for it. Sanctuary. It’s such a beautiful word. The way it flows, rolling effortlessly off your tongue, whispering, promising. It’s also a lie. It’s unattainable. I’ve never been safe.
“How are you feeling?” she asks quietly, gentle smile lighting her eyes.
I shake my head mutely. The tears stopped hours ago, but my voice has yet to make an appearance since our brief introduction earlier in the night. Or rather last night. Soft light is beginning to pool under the curtains Helen had drawn when we entered the bedroom.
Reaching forward, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m going to make us some tea. I won’t be long.”
I watch silently as she slips back into the hallway, hearing her whisper to someone as the door shuts with a soft click. Who is she? Why is she helping me? Why does she care?
No one has ever cared before. Why now? Why her? I don’t know why I’m here. The tears break free again, sliding warmly down my cheeks, blurring my vision. I don’t want to be here.
Wiping my nose with the back of my hand, I move into the small bathroom, opening drawers. My fingers finally close around my prize, tracing its contours lightly. There are probably more efficient, less messy ways to do this, but my options are limited at the moment. If I’m lucky, she’ll be a while.
I quietly shut the door behind me, twisting the lock before sinking unsteadily onto the closed toilet seat, clutching the blade in my hand tightly enough it cuts a deep line across my palm.
I can smell the tang of my blood as it drips from my closed fist, falling to the floor, the deep red in stark relief on the almost brilliantly white tile. A salty droplet follows soon after, splashing, mixing.
I slowly uncurl my hand, staring at the offensive piece of metal, glinting in the harsh light. Expelling a shuddery breath, I use my free hand to trace the ever visible scars marring my wrist. This time would be my real release. This time it wouldn’t be temporary. This would be my escape.
Picking up the blade, I carefully align it on an unblemished section of skin, applying slight pressure, barely enough to draw blood. I watch the thin red line trickle over my wrist, down my arm. I gently push the blade deeper, feeling the warm liquid flow under my fingertips, staining them. Pulling back, I reposition the razor, not bothering to move slowly, the metal digging deliciously into my skin. Three lines, five, seven. Switching wrists, I repeat the process, methodic.
Sticky red blood coats my hands, streaks my mostly bare legs, smears on the floor. I’m beginning to feel lightheaded, the floating sensation that used to serve my purposes fast approaching. I blink, trying to clear my vision. Two more cuts. Then it will all be over.
As the blade slices into my wrist again, I vaguely register noise at the door. Distant, muffled. I pull the razor away, and it slips from my blood-slick fingers. I watch with detached fascination as the blood oozes steadily from the mess I’ve made of my wrist. Everything goes blurry as my world shifts.
I feel suddenly warm, and realize I’m no longer alone. Unfamiliar fingers press an eerily white towel to my arm, turning it dark red. I can hear a voice, close to my ear, but I can’t make out the words. Nothing makes sense anymore. How did I get to the floor?
An arm snakes around my waist, pulling me backward against a warm body. Impossibly warm. As if reading my mind, the arm, I’ve finally realized it must belong to Helen, pulls me closer. I relax into her warmth as darkness claims me.***
I still don’t know why she saved me, why she thought I was worth saving. Sometimes I wonder what it is she saw in me, still sees in me. I do know I love her. She cared when everyone else had given up on me. That’s a debt I’ll never be able to repay.
***The Sanctuary. That’s what Helen calls it. She says I’ll be safe here, that I don’t have to be afraid anymore. No more living on the streets. No more selling my body to any man who will pay for it. Sanctuary. It’s such a beautiful word. The way it flows, rolling effortlessly off your tongue, whispering, promising. It’s also a lie. It’s unattainable. I’ve never been safe.
“How are you feeling?” she asks quietly, gentle smile lighting her eyes.
I shake my head mutely. The tears stopped hours ago, but my voice has yet to make an appearance since our brief introduction earlier in the night. Or rather last night. Soft light is beginning to pool under the curtains Helen had drawn when we entered the bedroom.
Reaching forward, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m going to make us some tea. I won’t be long.”
I watch silently as she slips back into the hallway, hearing her whisper to someone as the door shuts with a soft click. Who is she? Why is she helping me? Why does she care?
No one has ever cared before. Why now? Why her? I don’t know why I’m here. The tears break free again, sliding warmly down my cheeks, blurring my vision. I don’t want to be here.
Wiping my nose with the back of my hand, I move into the small bathroom, opening drawers. My fingers finally close around my prize, tracing its contours lightly. There are probably more efficient, less messy ways to do this, but my options are limited at the moment. If I’m lucky, she’ll be a while.
I quietly shut the door behind me, twisting the lock before sinking unsteadily onto the closed toilet seat, clutching the blade in my hand tightly enough it cuts a deep line across my palm.
I can smell the tang of my blood as it drips from my closed fist, falling to the floor, the deep red in stark relief on the almost brilliantly white tile. A salty droplet follows soon after, splashing, mixing.
I slowly uncurl my hand, staring at the offensive piece of metal, glinting in the harsh light. Expelling a shuddery breath, I use my free hand to trace the ever visible scars marring my wrist. This time would be my real release. This time it wouldn’t be temporary. This would be my escape.
Picking up the blade, I carefully align it on an unblemished section of skin, applying slight pressure, barely enough to draw blood. I watch the thin red line trickle over my wrist, down my arm. I gently push the blade deeper, feeling the warm liquid flow under my fingertips, staining them. Pulling back, I reposition the razor, not bothering to move slowly, the metal digging deliciously into my skin. Three lines, five, seven. Switching wrists, I repeat the process, methodic.
Sticky red blood coats my hands, streaks my mostly bare legs, smears on the floor. I’m beginning to feel lightheaded, the floating sensation that used to serve my purposes fast approaching. I blink, trying to clear my vision. Two more cuts. Then it will all be over.
As the blade slices into my wrist again, I vaguely register noise at the door. Distant, muffled. I pull the razor away, and it slips from my blood-slick fingers. I watch with detached fascination as the blood oozes steadily from the mess I’ve made of my wrist. Everything goes blurry as my world shifts.
I feel suddenly warm, and realize I’m no longer alone. Unfamiliar fingers press an eerily white towel to my arm, turning it dark red. I can hear a voice, close to my ear, but I can’t make out the words. Nothing makes sense anymore. How did I get to the floor?
An arm snakes around my waist, pulling me backward against a warm body. Impossibly warm. As if reading my mind, the arm, I’ve finally realized it must belong to Helen, pulls me closer. I relax into her warmth as darkness claims me.***
I still don’t know why she saved me, why she thought I was worth saving. Sometimes I wonder what it is she saw in me, still sees in me. I do know I love her. She cared when everyone else had given up on me. That’s a debt I’ll never be able to repay.