Just the warnings of descriptions of self harm - don't like it then get out of my sandbox.
The leaves scuttled around her feet as June made her way up the small path, her feet crunching leaves and grit underfoot. She didn’t hurry though, enjoying the damp smell of the earth and the slight sting to the wind. The full heat of summer had long since passed away, banished to the back of all our minds, like it’s fruits, preserved in jams and mulled slowly into sweet wine. Autumn a magical time, when the land is paused, like a drawn in breath, anticipatory, the gentle decline into harsh winter and the memory of sun held in the still light evenings. And yet it was also distressing, knowing death was on the horizon, bleak times no longer a bad dream, and it prompted introspection, always had and always would. It mostly came from the restlessness, that hum of blood as the dropping temperatures reminded your Mediterranean-tanned skin of its vivifying force. Except she wasn’t tanned this year, neither was Jim, the ground work which had still needed to be done with the CSU had meant no time off for her, and so Jim, in his indomitably sweet manner had stayed with her, the pair of them allowing Brandon time off with his kids, an unexpected two weeks when his ex-wife took a holiday with her new lover. And Cathy, with no family to think of, no school holidays to plan leave around had taken three weeks off, and in the week following her return had been almost pleasant. June smiled, that was unfair, the relationship between the two women had always been amiable although it would never be close, it was Jim she tended to but heads with. She slipped the key into the Yale lock and pushed open the door. Jim’s shoes were in an untidy pile by the door. His own flat was impeccable but when at hers he tended to let things slip a bit, her own fault, she was hardly the most fastidious person when it came to tidying things, cleaning yes, tidying never. She slipped her own shoes off, leaving them happily lying in the middle of the door mat and wandered into the kitchen, her next caffeine hit calling with a vengeance. As she waited for the kettle to boil in an age-old ritual it took her a while to realise Jim was sat in the garden on one of her old garden chairs letting the fading heat warm his body. He raised a hand to her but made no effort to come and greet her, and opening the back door she exited onto the cool grass, the bridge of her foot tickled lightly by the blades. Her face broke into a grin as she realised why he hadn’t moved, her old tabby was curled up contentedly on his knee, her throat resonating deep purrs as her front paws kneaded his legs. She winced in sympathy as Rosie flexed her paws, the claws catching his skin as she contracted them.
“I see you’ve found a friend.”
“No I believe your friend found me.” She laughed at his words.
“Oh well at least you’ve finally realised the nature of a relationship with a cat.” She had spent the last few weeks trying to convince Jim of the folly of assuming you ‘owned’ a cat, so long as you knew your place at the bottom of the pecking order you were fine. “Told you she’d like you when stopped treating her like a dog.” June added pointedly,
Jim humped loudly, feigning a dislike of the situation but they both knew he was strangely proud now the cat had finally accepted him. “Oh well, does that mean she’ll stop waiting outside the bedroom door to trip me up on a morning?”
“Oh yes.” June agreed readily, “but...you do realise she’ll simply try and join us in bed now?”
June didn’t think it were possible for a man to look any more terrified at that moment. “She was only sat outside the door because she was sulking, she usually sleeps on the bed, curled into the crook of my knees.” Walking back towards the kitchen she took pity on him and nipped back lifting the cat from his knee, letting her rest on her shoulder, stroking her head repeatedly. “Don’t worry, she can sleep downstairs, can’t you Trouble? Yes.” She muttered to the cat, merrily chattering to her before she dropped her to the kitchen floor and turned to finish the drink.
“Want anything?” she called though the still open door.
He rose stiffly from the seat and joined her in the kitchen, declining the drink offer with a shake of his head, and reached into his work bag removing a large brown envelope that June eyed with deep suspicion as he waved it at her. She raised her eyebrow in question and lifted her body onto the worktop, perching inelegantly on the Formica surface.
“I have this terrible feeling that envelope’s going to get me into as much trouble as it did the Hamiltons.” She stated dryly.
He threw it onto the worktop next to her, “I’ve been doing some research.”
“Harmless enough activity.” She joked opening the envelope and removing the ten to twelve sheets of computer print it contained.
“hmm,” he muttered non-committally, and eyeing him with even more suspicion she bent her head and began reading through the sheets, scanning the information. She leafed through them rapidly, her mouth setting itself into a firm line the more she read, eyes deep set with anger as she raised her head and met his own.
“Effect’s of Antidepressants, Cognitive Behavioural therapy, Depression, Self harm profiles, Jim what is this?”
“I would think that was obvious.”
She slipped off the unit, landing on the floor with barely a sound, and with as much forced dignity as she could muster walked past him into the lounge. “We’ve had this discussion Jim.”
“I know” He said softly, sitting down next to her on the blue sofa, noting with a tinge of sadness how she stiffened as he did so.
“Then I really don’t see what there is to discuss.”
“Because nothing’s changing June.”
“I’ve tired.” She ran her hands through her hair, pressing her fingers into the skin, welcoming the light pressure, “I am trying,” she amended, “You should know this isn’t going to be easy.” The accusation was clear, but Jim simply shook his head.
“No. I’m not letting you play that card June. You’re right I do know how hard it is to beat something like this, particularly when you’ve got no one to support you, but I am not letting you cry off this when it gets tough, that’s not like you. Beside which, or perhaps because of, I know you’re not trying at this.”
“I stopped.” She pointed out sharply.
“Yes, you did, for nearly two months, which would be impressive, but you had things to distract you, reasons not to cut, us, double shifts at work and so forth, but it’s been creeping back recently.”
June’s shoulders slumped, he was right, not that she was ever going to admit that to him. She hadn’t been feeling good latterly, panicky for little reason, situations feeling like they were out of control, tension in her body, sleepless nights and the numbness has settled over her mind and body. And she had begun cutting, small scale, one or two cuts.
“Don’t think I believe that the scratches on your legs were from gardening, you’ve been cagey, distant and I think a bit teary and you’ve not let me near you for a week.”
“I told you, I’ve been tired, you know what it’s like at work at the minute, if it weren’t only October I’d say the goddamn Christmas rush has already started.”
He smiled weakly and drew in a long breath. “Yeah I believe everything you’ve just told me, I bet you are tired, I can bet you’re feeling drained, your body restless and your mind lethargic and I know you don’t want to be around people at all, you’ve been snappy to Cathy today.”
“I didn’t think that classified as a trait of self Injurers, nope …” she paused and picked trough the papers, ”Snapping at Cathy isn’t on the list.” She shot a sarcastic smile at him and tossed the papers to him, feeling slightly guilty as they scattered to the floor. “And what made you an expert anyway?”
He rubbed his eyes wearily, “June, please?” He asked gently.
She nodded her fair head, free to let him speak, conveying an apology in her look, which he accepted just as quietly.
“Now correct me if I’m wrong here but, I think that up until now you’ve had no reason to need to cut, in the flush of a new romance you’ve been clam, stable, relatively fulfilled, no major demands at work and you stopped for my sakes, not your own. This does affect me, I don’t know that you’ve cut your torso again, I don’t, I hope you haven’t but well…you’ve backed off from me little by little in the last weeks, you don’t seem to want to be close to me at all anymore, and I don’t know why, possibly because you’re ashamed and disappointed, but only you can answer that. I want you to stop June, not just because it hurts me to see you have to do this but because I want a relationship with you, not with this addiction. I love you, you know that, and I have a sneaking suspicion that’s part of the problem, and you can’t push me away with this, but I am only human June, there will be a point beyond which I can’t carry on either. I would love you to find a reason to fight this, but it has to be yours, and at the minute that’s not that case. I’m not going to ever tell you anything stupid like pick between me or it because I know it’s not that easy, and I also know what would win in the end.”
June clenched her fists tight pressing her nails hard into the flesh and swiped angrily at the tears that ran down her face. Scrunching her eyes tight she felt the last salty water escape burning a path of betrayal down her cheeks, letting him know exactly how many nerves he’d just punched, hard. There was nothing left to say, not on her part anyway and he must have realised because he stood up and retrieved his bag and jacket from the kitchen.
“I’m not going to try and crowd you, I’ll see you at work on Monday.” He bent down and tidied the papers into a rough pile on the carpet and cupping her face kissed her gently before righting himself and locking the front door behind him.
June remained sat on the sofa, her few stray tears from earlier all she could cry. She felt empty again, except this was different, this wasn’t anything external, just good old self-protection. There was no way she could let herself feel, not now, it was going hurt too damn much if she let those walls slip right now. The sound of Rosie padding into the room jolted her to action and scooping the cat up she walked through into the utility and reached for a new tin of cat food from the top shelf. Opening it deftly she forked a third into the cat bowl trying to avoid the meandering path of the excited animal at her feet and sighed laboriously as she watched her eat.
Sad indeed not to know what we need.
Except she did know what she wanted, wanted desperately. She could feel the tears close again and resolutely stamped them down, no need to get over emotional about this. She just couldn’t give Jim what he wanted, that she loved him was pretty much a forgone conclusion these days, but that she was ever going to admit that to anyone, even herself in stronger moments couldn’t be contemplated. One feeling just led to too many others, better to stay in this odd state where the world wasn’t quite real, didn’t quite effect her, she could just watch it pass by at a different pace, rather like swimming underwater, everything filtered, distorted, odd.
Oh well, it had to happen eventually, it did with all her relationships, that point where the focus shifts, no longer about dating, having fun and feverish sex in the afternoons, but something slower, deeper. Not that she’d ever bothered with it, she’d wanted it, craved it even, the peace that comes from being known and loved no matter what, but the sacrifice was too great. She’d never lied to herself, but there were parts of her life, her journey to this place that she never wanted to look at again, let alone admit to another person, even if that person were Jim. Truth was she just didn’t know how to love, her mother had told her that nearly thirty years ago and she’d raged against that knowledge for years, but in the end her mother was right, she just couldn’t. This was all she’d ever known, the cycles of fear ebbing and flowing in their own unique rhythm, and the emotional block and cutting, the only survival mechanism, constant throughout. It was just who she was, Jim had been right all those months ago, dead from the neck down. He’d touched a nerve, just not the one he realised, she just didn’t know who else to be.
It was alright for Jim, she thought with a burst of resentment, he was naturally upbeat, depression was a blip for him, an altered state. Hardy so for her, take away this feeling, these actions and there was nothing there, just a collection of events that happened to some other person in some other time. Easy enough to say stop, but do that, and there was nothing. Just nothing, like some protective coat which she had wrapped around herself so many years ago, well whatever had been there before was long gone, she couldn’t even remember the girl she used to be, faded away, lost. Or perhaps it was never there in the first place, perhaps that was what all this crap was hiding, the fact that ultimately there was nothing. June Ackland, only this person other people knew, cared for, loved. Jim would figure it out eventually. Perhaps that’s why she ended up pushing people away so hard. Glancing at the floor she realised the cat had finished eating and was in fact no where to be seen. Methodically she tided the kitchen, flicking the kettle on yet again, her cup of coffee still unmade and fiddled restlessly with her fingers as she waited, running her watch round and round her wrist until shortly the switch flicked itself off and she poured the boiling water into the mug, not bothering to move her hand which was in danger of being burnt, nor even flinching as drops splattered onto her skin.
Reaching into the far cupboard she removed the percolator and tipped a generous amount of grains into its base, and then without a second thought walked back into the utility and grabbed a bottle of whisky. Depth charged coffee, would at least numb things for a bit.
***
Slightly unsteadily June slammed the microwave door shut and watched in rapt fascination as the lasagne spun slowly around on its plate. She finally felt relaxed, she wasn’t drunk, not yet she thought sardonically as she deftly uncorked the bottle of white wine which had been sitting in the fridge waiting for an occasion for nearly three weeks now. Wanting to get absolutely ratted qualified for an occasion. Wine always hit her hard, hard and fast, but the whiskeys would make sure the alcohol level stayed well above inebriation for long enough. Downing the glass rapidly she placed it back on the counter a little more heavily then she had intended and swallowed rapidly for a few seconds as the nausea subsided. No point in wasting good alcohol down the toilet. Sipping at the next glass June suddenly hit the microwave off in frustration and ambled through into the lounge taking the two alcohol bottles with her. Placing the capped whiskey by the leg of the sofa and the wine bottle rather precariously on the small coffee table she reached for the stereo and stabbed at the power button for a few seconds. Soon the dulcet tones of James Taylor were winding their way through the thickening air and June sat down heavily on the floor, propped up against the sofa dropping her head back onto the wide cushions until the odd angle began to aggravate her stomach again and she righted her posture rapidly. Damn. She hated drinking alone. Too much too quickly was the usual routine, and she was going to come down hard in a few hours. God damn depressants. As June made her way steadily through the bottle she could feel herself begin to tear up, the tension was back in her hands, asking her to clench, to tense, letting her know she’d soon have a blade in one hand and blood pouring down her body sooner or later. Her face was numb, never a good sign. God, I love him so much, she thought.
“Why the fuck do I do this?” The question hung in the air, adding to the atmosphere that was almost tangible. She sucked in a deep breath and then raised one hand to her mouth as she began to sob, trying to suppress the gulping cries.
“Of course we bloody know why I’m doing this, don’t we dad? Why thirty years after I left that house I’m sat here pushing the only man I’ve really given a damn about away. And I can’t hate you for it, how fucked up is that. Must have asked for it I suppose, deserved it? Who knows…god I’m even talking to myself.” She let out a half laugh and tried to stop the tears, hating herself even now for the weakness of them.
“Shit.” She huffed out a laugh again and reached for the last of the wine, having dispensed with the glass she knocked the final swills into her mouth , straight to the back of her throat and felt the burning sensation drag her away from the recriminations for a moment. Glancing carefully around the room, aware of the slight distortion, she became aware of the lyrics bouncing gently off the walls, their presence a strange comfort, ‘Won't you look down upon me, Jesus,/You've got to help me make a stand/You've just got to see me through another day/My body's aching and my time is at hand/And I won't make it any other way’. The poignancy of the words struck her. Jim was right she had cut recently, not bad, a few slashes on her thigh, the old wounds now nothing more than white lines of memory, and they didn’t hurt like they should, but she was aware of them, had spent most of the last few days pressing them into the side of her desk. It allowed her to concentrate at least. ‘Not that you were ever really much help Lord’ she mused, just there when I needed something to believe in. She lightly fingered the cross at her neck and smiled wistfully, just another bit of love offered on a plate that she couldn’t accept. It might be tragic were it not so damn pathetic.
‘I need him so much.’ The words flashed across her mind unbidden and she felt the force of them hit her square in the stomach. She did need him. This pretty much was it, now or never, last chance saloon girl she told herself. If she let Jim slip through her fingers then she might as well down the Tylenol and slash the temples, just like she’d always fantasised about. What the hell was this that had hold of her, ‘why the hell do I reject all the things I want?’, why can’t I just reach out and let him in, trust him? Yeah, well, we know the answer to that as well.
She groped for the whisky bottle, determined to stop the flow of introspection and depression that was settling over her, pressing down on her shoulders, the air in the room thick with its acrid taste, and as she raised it to her lips she felt a memory assault her.
***
I am small now, I can feel him towering above me, not stood with me as he has been most times. I can see his waist, perhaps I am on my knees. I know what is coming, I know, I have felt this before and the scars on my bones tense in anticipation and I feel sick, tense, angry, afraid, deserving. I knew I should not have pushed this hard, I should have learned that lesson by now. I can add up my sums and babble my spellings, but I cannot learn this lesson. Have not learnt this lesson.
I wither as he surges towards me and I am grasped by my collar, pulled from my perch and lolling unsteadily on my feet I fall and the carpet burns at my thin legs. Tossed onto the ground I lift my hands to my head, expecting the flurry of arms to descend from on high, the punitive judgemental king, vengeance from heaven. Well I am hardly an angel. He kicks me. He kicks me again. Surprise. A useful tactic, he is booting me to where she wants me, which things to tidy, to expunge, but we both know it is not the room he wants to be tidy, it is me. I am the disturbing element here, not the papers or the toy. I, that which cannot be predicated of anything positive, which cannot be pushed into my tidy bed on a night to sleep restful sleep. I am hauled away again, this time I manage to keep on my feet, just, as I am dragged down the stairs, and I know if I fall I will career into him and it will hurt me. But I remain standing. I cannot see my mother through the spaces between the banister posts, but she is echoing somewhere, sitting around on the periphery, an unreliable ally. She rarely joins our war, she is best at patching up the wounds. I am dropped again, like a dog, onto the floor at his feet, and we begin again, sharp, direct orders punctuated with stabs of pain. I obey without resistance, I know that is easier, why can I not apply that knowledge before now? Do I forget each time what is was like before? My bones protest at that idea. Perhaps I am just odd, perverted, perhaps I need this, perhaps I expect this? But even now I know that is untrue. Hope? That’s there somewhere, springing ever eternal, but we both know the answer. I am too pushy, I reach for what I want. No self control, no discipline. He has left the room now, it is tidy enough to be removed from his consciousness. I wonder idly if I ever shall be. It is odd, I cannot remember the clothes he wore, nor even the shoes on his feet, I cannot be sure he wore them but for the fact bare feet would have hurt him too. But I can still feel his anger, and only one thought abides with me. Like a dog, like a dog, like a dog…
***
Replacing the cap on the bottle Jun stood up carefully, unsteady on her feet, her mind blank, body numb, both physically and emotionally and stumbled up the narrow stairs into her bathroom. Removing the envelope of blades she selected two and fitted them into the card holder. Lifting her foot onto the toilet she twisted her body slightly and stretched the skin of her upper thigh tight. Placing the blade below the seven shallow cuts she dragged it across the skin, testing the pressure. The blade cut cleanly and she drew in a sharp breath at the clear pain, enjoying the heady rush even though the alcohol dullness. It was barely a scratch and pressing harder she cut deeper, again and then again. Pausing briefly she watched as the blood began to seep out of the cuts, the red drops gaining in size, liquid tension building until the deepest began to run swiftly down her slim leg. Smiling she raised the blade and began to cut systematically along the length of the skin, moving as she ran out of skin. Wobbling a little light-headed June paused and glanced at the small pool of blood collecting at her foot, dripping steadily onto the linoleum floor. Lifting her top slightly she caught it with her chin and held it in position as she pressed the blade deeply into the skin across her ribs. She could feel the immense sting of nerves and bones and let out a pained cry, thankful that the alcohol had numbed things slightly, but nevertheless she drew the blade across her right rib several more times before moving to the left. Detachedly she admired the cuts, they weren’t long, but they were deep enough, and were going to hurt like hell in the morning. Much calmer now she moved to sit on the washing basket and tested the pressure on her legs a little more, not ready to stop just yet. Pressing hard Jun watched as a large gash opened on her thigh and then without any thought at all added a second.
Yet abruptly the pain hit her hard, almost as though some kind of satellite delay had taken place and she finally took in the mess. The two last cuts where bad, deep and wide, easily two inches long and a centimetre wide and they were bleeding, badly. And she was crying again, not just whimpering, but huge, almost crazed sobs. Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror she stared back at the image for a moment before slamming her fist against the glass. Damn. She was a mess, literally, as was the bathroom she realised. Running a lukewarm bath she quickly rinsed away all the caked blood and felt her stomach clench in mild worry as the gaping cuts bled profusely into the water, the red swirling away turning the clear water a muddy brown. Slipping on a pair of loose trousers from the floor of her bedroom she placed her body carefully on the bed, knowing how ever she lay it was going to hurt. Objective achieved. Turning onto her side She applied basic first aid and hoped the pressure of her body would help to stem the blood flow, trying to ignore the nausea as her body objected to laying down and the room span in her head.
***
It was the hour before dawn when she awoke from her fitful sleep, agitated, the burning pain from her leg gaining in significance as the beginnings of a hangover tugged at her consciousness. She felt ill, so ill. She remember this feeling all too well, and most of it wasn’t physical, some kind of psychological reaction to the guilt and the pain of cutting, it happened every night she did this. Twisting to one side, shivering as the warm cocoon of air which had settled around her in sleep dissipated June glanced at the empty bed beside her and was suddenly overwhelmingly lonely. What she wouldn’t have given for a pair of arms to comfort her now. Him arms, Jim’s arms. She briefly contemplated picking up the phone, he would come to her if she asked it of him, like a loyal dog. She shivered again and swung her legs to the side of the bed rising and slipping downstairs. It was oddly stuffy in the lounge, the saccharine smell of the wine still lingering in the air and she tugged back a curtain and paused opening a window. The blast of fresh air was a balm, cool and sweet and it called to her. Rooting through a draw in the kitchen June retrieved a pack of cigarettes she knew were knocking around in its dusty depths somewhere and unlatched the door cautiously, stepping out into the night, on the edge of a new day. She took in a deep breath, sucking the fragrant air into her lungs and releasing the breath slowly. The street was deserted, all so different in this half-light and it pacified her. Sitting on the top step she lit up a cigarette and enjoyed the tangy taste of tobacco in her mouth. Finishing the first she smoked through a second and then a third, until for the first time in a long while felt content in herself, not because of the job, or Jim, just her. Standing up she stepped lightly down onto the pavement and into the road, the light of her hallway spilling out onto the path and the dawn gaining ground in the east, the sky light, the clouds flecked and textured. A surge of joy ran through her. She had missed this, the simple pleasures in life, all the crap with cutting tended to blind you, so all you ever know is your own head, too tired, too drained to notice anything else beyond the little isolated world you chose to inhabit. How had she forgotten what it was like?
Suddenly purposeful she headed back into the house and picked up the envelope of blades and tossed them into the kitchen bin before walking back out into the road barefoot. She trod carefully into the middle and watched a green van as it passed by on the main road. Turning to the light she looked up at the sky, the moon still hanging lazily in the West. Symbol of woman and madness, strangely appropriate and then speaking to no one but the night she muttered “I want my life back.”
To Be Continued...
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