For the Best

For the Best

          My feet pounded up the new, wooden steps to 121 Reverie Boulevard. Before turning the doorknob, I turned and looked over every lawn’s perfect, green grasses, apple trees ready to be picked, and spotless flowerbeds. Not a pansy out of place, I thought mirthlessly.

          I twisted the doorknob, listening to the small click as the front door unlocked and swept wide open across the chestnut floor of our small lobby, where my mother sat with a magazine in hand.

          “Hey, Allie,” she chirped, throwing her magazines on the coffee table.

          “Hi Mom,” I mumbled, making my way to the stairs.

          “Wait,” she said, “I have a question for you, Allie.”

          I stopped in my tracks, and fear pulsed through me. Did she know? How could she? She couldn’t; but what if she did? What if she found--

          “How was the first day of school?”

          Relief flooded through me. “Fine,” I choked out. It’s for the best, I reassuringly thought to myself before I fled the hallway and into my room.

          I collapsed across the soft pillows shoved in the corner, mascara-stained tears already running down my cheeks. Because the first day of school was not fine. It was torture.

          I could remember the teasing following me through the halls, haunting me.

          Loser!

          Retard!

          Stupid!

          Insults thrown at me, but even worse were the snippets of rumors I heard as I passed.

          She’s so ugly!

          She has, like, NO friends, because she’s such a gossip.

          I reached behind one of the pillows I was laying on, until finally the warm, molded plastic handle was secured in my palm.

          I turned my wrist upward, and hovered the blade over my vulnerable blue vein, as thoughts raced through my mind.

          -No.

          Do it!

          -Don’t!

          Are you some good-girl puppet? Show you have any backbone at all!

          Any thoughts after that were drowned out, as I quickly slashed the razor across my wrist and blood dribbled over my arm.

          The cut stung as salty tears dropped over it, diluting and spreading the blood. I slit the vein again, and my fingernails had a reddish tinge on the lunula.

          Suddenly, like a blow to the chest, I had a flashback.

          It was five years ago, when I was nine years old. The sky was a brilliant, shining blue. The sun warmed my back and shoulders, and shined on the dewdrops on the vibrant, green grass. Puffy white clouds dotted the sky.

          It was a perfect day, and worn leather football spiraled cleanly through the air in a smooth arc.

          The day I learned to throw a football, I realized. Over at the other end of the yard was a blonde girl in a striped t-shirt, her bangs slick over her forehead but her cheeks flushed with pride. That’s me, I thought, awestruck.

          I was so young, but so happy, and so carefree. I was still ignored for being so shy, and mocked for being so smart. But I didn’t care. And why would I? I liked myself, and that was all that mattered.

          I blinked, and I saw myself in my floor-length mirror with mascara tears and marred wrists.

          I threw the razor across the room, and folded my arms.

           Have some backbone!