Because I'm Disposable

by Rosie Somers

  “Someone’s here!” Mona pseudo-whispered.

  “Damn, hide the stuff!” was Garrett’s equally loud response.

  “Callie, what’s going on?” Corrine was standing over us before we’d finished scrambling to make sure all evidence of what we’d done was off the coffee table and gone from sight.

  “Uh … we were …” I didn’t have a good answer. Corrine wasn’t stupid; she probably already knew what we’d been doing before she got there. The haze of marijuana smoke floating close to the ceiling wasn’t a dead giveaway or anything.

  “Don’t bother. I know what you were doing.” She spun on her three-inch, peep-toe heels and went into the kitchen.

  “We should probably go,” Mona told Garrett, who looked at the now half-empty cereal box like it was a beloved pet he would never see again.

  I grabbed the box and shoved it at him. “Take it with you.”

  And just like that, he lit up, taking the Fruity-O’s and practically skipping to the front door. He didn’t even say goodbye before bouncing through the front door, which he left open behind him.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at school.” Mona’s exit was considerably more demure.

  Once they were gone, I went in search of Corrine.

  I found her at the kitchen table eating a slice of cinnamon toast. Dad’s snack. Did she miss him? The idea left me with the faintest sense of betrayal. Like she should hate his memory as much as I did.

  I sat down across from her, but not before checking and rechecking my position in relation to the chair. I’d never missed a chair in my life, but at that moment, if I wasn’t extra careful, I could have missed it even if it were attached to my butt. “Are you mad?” I asked the question even though we both already knew the answer.

  She carefully put down her toast and brushed the excess crumbs from her fingers. “Mad? Why would I be mad? Because my big sister, who I’ve always been able to count on to make responsible decisions, was getting high with the school slut and Mr. Stoner of the Year himself?”

  I snapped back against the chair as if she’d struck me. In a way, she had.

  “What’s going on with you, Cal? You never would have dreamed of doing any of this when …” She trailed off.

  “When dad was around to beat me for it?” I sat forward in my seat, preparing to flee if I didn’t like her answer.

  She winced. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Well, what did you mean?” I challenged.

  “Just that … I don’t know. You’re different now. You’re doing things the old Callie never would have done.”

  My chair scraped the tile floor as I backed away from the table and stood. “The old Callie is gone, Corri. She died with our father.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Being high alone in my room wasn’t nearly as much fun as sitting around my coffee table watching Mona try to land Fruity-O’s in Garrett’s mouth. There was probably an entire bowl’s worth of cereal under the furniture still.

  Being high alone in my room left me too much time to think, too much time to feel. And I was miserable. I was such a miserable person, even I didn’t want to be around me anymore. Distraction was what I needed right then.

  I fumbled for my phone and dialed Link’s number.

  “Hello?” He answered on the first ring.

  “Hey.” Now that I had him on the phone, I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Hey …?”

  “I … um …” An awkward silence stretched while I tried to gather my thoughts. Finally, “Wanna hang out?”

  The silence took over again, and in the silence echoed every reason why I shouldn’t have called him.

  You’re stoned.

  He’s too good for you.

  You’re being too clingy.

  Guys don’t like girls who smother them.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly, “I shouldn’t have called. I’ll let you go.”

  “No!” He was quick to respond now. “I just … did you get high with them?” His disapproval was palpable, even through the phone. For a moment, I considered lying to him.

  “Yes.” The word was a guilty whisper, and I would have sworn I could hear him nodding.

  “Ye-ah … I’ve got a lot of homework to get done. Maybe I’ll call when I’m done.”

  I could tell by the tone of his voice that he wasn’t going to call me back that night. I was getting the brush off. “Okay, well … later, then.”

  “Yeah, later.”

  My phone beeped that the call had ended before I even pulled it away from my ear.

  “K. Bye,” I said to the empty room.

  A heartbeat later, the bedroom door opened and Corrine strolled in. Had she been standing out on the landing, listening to my disaster of a conversation with Link? She stopped at the foot of my bed and stared down at me. “I’m telling Mom.”

  I snorted. Mom wasn’t going to do anything. She didn’t have a confrontational bone in her entire body. “Go for it.”

  “Don’t you care, Callie?” Corrine tried a different tack.

  I covered my face with my pillow. “About what?”

  “Anything! Do you care about anything?”

  “Not really.”

  She growled a frustrated, angry sound. “If you don’t care about anything Callie, then what’s the point?” She took an arms-crossed, wide-legged stance and dug in her heels waiting for a response.

  The truth was, I didn’t know what the point was. I didn’t know if there even was one. The only thing I knew for sure was that I couldn’t stay in that room with her for one more second. She was evoking something too raw in me, and I didn’t want to feel it.

  So, I fled to the bathroom and locked myself inside. Suddenly, I was too exhausted to stand. I leaned back against the wall and watched my reflection as I slid boneless down the wall and settled into a heap of emotion on the floor. Tears rolled down my cheeks, dripping off my chin and splattering my pant legs.

  My breakdown was quiet, a bunch of sniffles and heaving whisper-sobs. I’d perfected the nearly-silent cry years ago out of self-preservation. Now, with dear old Dad gone, it served no purpose except to remind me of everything I wasn’t, to remind me that I was fractured inside.

  I moaned, a long, low, sound—the kind of noise a feral cat makes when it’s backed into a corner. The noise rumbled in my throat, creating a fissure in my soul, and suddenly I was wailing, giving true voice to my pain. I cried for everything I’d lost: the security my father had taken from me, the life and loving family I should have had, the hope for a better life I’d harbored all these years. I cried for the freedom I’d gained when my father died and all the destruction it was bringing down on me, for the pain that I was causing myself. I cried because I desperately wanted to be loved, and I was so damn unlovable. Maybe if I cried long enough, hard enough, my tears would wash it all away, wash me away.

  Eventually, my pain subsided to a dull ache in the center of my chest. My tears and keening cries died off, leaving me with swollen eyes, a bad case of the sniffles, and the occasional shuddering aftershock. I was becoming numb, apathetic to everything around me. I didn’t want to feel anything anymore, and I couldn’t stand the person that I was. Or the person I was becoming.

  My eyes landed on the vanity cabinet in front of me, and almost without thought, I reached out and pulled one of the doors open. A package of baby-pink disposable razors sat inside, in front of all of Corrine’s hair products and our basket of feminine hygiene items. I'd expected every razor in the house to still be hidden after the last time I took one out for a joy ride. But here they were, practically begging me to use them.

  I grabbed the bag and dumped the contents. The plastic clattered lightly as one, two, three, four razors hit the floor. I stared at them for a millennium, at least. I finally reached out and lifted one between two fingers. My arm was heavy and my fingers thick and clumsy, but I popped the head off the razor in one, deft movement and removed the clear safety cap. This all fel
t so familiar.

  I never consciously made the decision to break the head and dig the individual blades out. It happened organically, a natural progression from emotional breakdown to quiet determination. I buried everything I was feeling under a layer of intent, and soon, I was like a woman possessed—single-mindedly tearing at the plastic to get to the metal. Finally, one flimsy blade popped free, and the entire world stopped. I was now living my whole life in breathy anticipation of what this blade would feel like slicing through my skin.

  I pressed it to my forearm, halfway between my wrist and elbow. I knew from slitting my wrists that a razorblade would cut smoother, cleaner than the scissors had. It would draw blood efficiently. The pinch of the blade piercing my flesh was minor, but it was enough to remind me that I could still feel. When I moved the razorblade away and opened my eyes, my body came alive with little pinpricks of excitement. I looked down to where I’d cut, but it wasn’t what I’d expected. Barely anything showed.

  When I’d slit my wrists, the blood had been everywhere: all over me, all over the bathroom. When I’d sliced my finger with the chef’s knife, it had seeped through the towel. This though—this was a hairline, a sliver of red on my pale skin. At the very end of it, where I’d started my slice, was a tiny bubble of blood. It was a cat scratch. No, it was less than a cat scratch. It was a nick, a graze, a barely-there, wannabe cut.

  I ignored it and set the blade to my arm again. This time, I pressed deeper, pulled slower. And I watched as I tugged. Blood welled up almost immediately, seeping out of the fissure in my skin in uneven, miniscule waves. The waves undulated and formed two drops which slid down the length of my arm. That was more like it.

  I got up on my knees long enough to snatch the box of tissues from the back of the toilet, then plopped back down on my butt, cross-legged. I pulled a tissue from the box, but didn’t use it to sop up the bloody rivulets tracing down my forearm. Instead, I held it under my arm to catch the runoff. Only a handful of drops actually fell from my arm onto that tissue before the trail began to dry. The spell was breaking, my hypnosis fading, and I needed more. More blood, more peace, more forgetting.

  So, I cut again, and again after that. Until I had five angry, red slashes marring my arm at various angles. I grabbed a fresh tissue—my fourth, by this point—and used it to dab at the blood covering my arm, some of it mostly dried, some still wet and tacky. All of it mesmerizing.

  I finally felt at peace. The emotions that had been roiling a short time ago were settled, collected firmly back into place under layers of apathy and bitterness. I could function again. After washing the last of the blood from my arm, I dumped my soiled tissues and most of the broken razor into the small trash can next to the sink and left the bathroom with my blade tucked carefully in my pocket.

  The bedroom was empty when I returned; Corrine must have gone back downstairs. I slipped my blade out of my pocket and tucked it under my mattress. Then, I dropped onto my bed and closed my eyes. This day had been so long, so emotional, I wanted to stay in that bed forever and forget the outside world even existed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The early morning air was uncomfortably cold. I wanted to turn tail and run back inside, straight to my room. I wanted to climb back into my warm bed and never emerge again. But I stepped out onto the porch anyway. I gave Link’s truck one longing glance, then set out for the bus stop. His truck might have heat, but if his cold attitude yesterday was any indication, I would have less chance of freezing on the heater-less school bus.

  Besides, by the time he had to leave for school, I—and everyone else riding the bus—would be long gone. I tugged the hood of my oversized sweatshirt down low over my head and pulled the string tighter. My view only included my feet and a half-dozen or so inches in front of them, but at least I was retaining more warmth now.

  I managed my trek to the corner mostly by memory and luck. When I caught sight of sneakers on the edge of my periphery, I pushed my hood back enough to see who they belonged to. The bright, white kicks disappeared under khaki pant legs and I followed them up. Up to a studded belt riding low on narrow hips, up to a black sweater fitted over a narrow stomach, up to a muscular chest, then a smooth, angular jawline. Up to pale green eyes.

  I stopped in my tracks and pushed my head all the way free from my hoodie. “What are you doing here?” I asked Link.

  “Waiting.” His answer was casual and matter-of-fact.

  “Waiting for what?” Was his truck not running? Maybe he was taking the bus today.

  “For you.” He stepped off the curb and into the street in front of me. “I’m really sorry for being a jerk yesterday.”

  I bit my lip to hide my shock that he was apologizing. Shouldn’t I have been the one saying sorry? I was the one who’d blazed-called him expecting him to come running to hang out with me, even though I’d known he didn’t approve of me smoking. Instead of returning the apology, I bit my lip harder and nodded my acceptance.

  “Are we good?” He tucked his hands deep into his pockets and shuffled his feet. The action made him look so young, so vulnerable.

  “We’re good,” I told him quietly. His smile was like the sun, blinding in its intensity.

  “So,” he motioned toward his truck, “can I give you a lift, or do I have to ride the bus with you?”

  “Please, you think I’d turn down a heater in this weather?” I laughed and let him take my backpack from my shoulder.

  In minutes we were on our way to school, and I was on my way to thawing out. I stretched my arms out straight, placing each hand in front of an air vent, and waggled my fingers in front of the blast of warm air there.

  “So, I was thinking … maybe we could hang out after school. Will Corrine be home? I could bring a movie.”

  Was he hoping for time alone? Suddenly, my brain hitched on the idea of being alone with Link, of kissing him. Of being kissed by him. A tickly, nervous sensation blossomed in the pit of my stomach. What day was it today, Tuesday?

  “Nah, she’s got JV cheer squad.” And my mother would probably be sleeping. If not, maybe I could convince Link to forget the hanging out and skip right to making out in my room. I smiled at the idea.

  “What’s so funny?” Link’s curiosity stopped my lascivious thoughts in their tracks.

  “I … er … I was just remembering a joke Corri told me.”

  “Oh yeah?” He wanted to hear it—just my luck.

  “Yeah, it wasn’t really that funny.”

  Link looked skeptical, but he let the subject drop.

  “What movie were you thinking of bringing over?” I hoped with every fiber of my being that he was about to name something romantic.

  “Have you seen Blood Suckers Three yet?” Great, another horror.

  “No.” I hadn’t seen one or two yet either, and had never planned to. But, I would have watched all three back to back if it gave me the opportunity to kiss Lincoln Devaux again.

  * * * * *

  I’d waited with bated breath all day to hang out with Link, and now that it was here, now that he was here next to me on my worn couch, I couldn’t even work up the nerve to hold hands with him. I vacillated between wishing he were more of an aggressor and mentally berating myself for not being more aggressive. I should have taken control. I should have gotten up on my knees and planted my lips firmly on his, should have pushed him back on the couch and climbed onto his lap so he could wrap me in those strong, safe arms.

  Instead, I watched the movie, or at least I pretended to watch it while silently contemplating what Corrine would have done. Or Sylvie. I crawled nervous fingers across my leg, off my knee, onto his, and I slipped my hand under his. He reacted right away, tightening his fingers over my hand tenderly.

  I snuggled against him, and he lifted his arm to loop it around my shoulders. Then his free hand was back on mine. His touch was soft, loving. He swirled tiny circles with his thumb. I would always remember this moment, sitting here wrapped in his arms. I would always
remember the way his touch branded me, waking sensations in my entire body. Gooseflesh erupted on my arms.

  Those circles, that caress, moved slowly up my hand to my wrist, then on to my arm. I rested my head on his chest, listened to his heartbeat. The steady thump-thump soothed me. My eyelids fluttered closed, and I relaxed into him, wishing for all the world that he would hold me forever. For the first time in my entire life, I felt safe—truly safe.

  Until I felt the tiniest pinch of pain on my arm.

  I froze. He froze. On the edge of my vision, I saw him turn his head, but I was too scared to look at him, too scared of what I would see in his expression. Too scared of what he would see in mine.

  Carefully, like he thought he was going to break me, he pulled the sleeve of my sweatshirt higher up my arm. The material tugged at my healing cuts, and I winced. Was I really going to sit there and let him expose what I had done? I wasn’t ready to admit it to him. I’d barely even admitted it to myself.

  I watched my sleeve rise in slow motion while I mentally ran through my options: expose my cuts and let him know what I had done, or run, flee the moment and hope he had no clue what he’d almost seen. I opted for the latter, and the second the decision was solid in my mind, I leapt into action.

  I scooted away from him and tugged my sleeve down, all the way over my hand. For good measure, I pressed my other hand to the cotton, clamping it tight over my arm. Over my cuts.

  “Callie.” His tone was almost parental. His look was even more so, full of awareness and disappointment and something else. Sadness maybe? “What happened to your arm?”

  “Huh? Oh that? I got in a fight with a kitten. Guess who won.” I tried to sound light and carefree.

  “You don’t have a kitten.” It’s true what they say: the devil is in the details.

  “It was Garrett’s cat. You know, when I skipped with him the other day. We stopped at his house while we were gone, and I couldn’t resist playing with the kitten.” I laughed, but it sounded nervous even to me.

  Link looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully, like he was trying to call some important memory to mind. Crap, had I worn short sleeves yesterday? Bared my arms to him in anyway? I couldn’t remember.