Chapter 14: Twelve - Bandages

Bandages

I couldn’t get the boy’s words out of my head.

I tried and I tried, but his evil plans for me just kept on playing over and over again in my mind. And every time I remembered what he’d said he was going to make me do, I burst into tears. That’s why I couldn’t leave the bathroom.

I stayed there, for God knows how long, curled up in a ball on the cold bathroom floor, just crying my eyes out like the spineless sap that I was. I should have been strong. I should have been showing the voices that they didn’t control me. I should have walked out of that bathroom the minute he’d vanished and joined my friends downstairs.

That would have been the brave thing to do.

But no. I’d stayed in the bathroom, instead, knowing that no one would disturb me until after dinner, when Kara wanted to take a shower before bed. That wouldn’t be for another couple of hours, so there was no risk of me getting caught. I was a coward. I kept saying how I wanted to prove to people that I wasn’t crazy; kept saying that I didn’t belong here, but look at how I was acting?

I was crying over something the voice said. Sure I was crying because it had brought up very painful memories, but still… that was no excuse. I had to start standing up to the voices. The more I let them control me, the more pain it was going to cause me in the long run. I had to start dealing with them better.

Looking down at myself, I realized how much I’d already failed in that department.

My arms and legs were covered in bleeding scratch marks, an obvious sign of how distressed I’d been. The scratching wasn’t new. It was something I did unconsciously whenever I was feeling sad or stressed out; something I’d been doing more and more increasingly since that night at Uncle Charlie’s house. But I’d never drawn blood before. That part was new.

Frantic, I grabbed handfuls of toilet paper, soaked them in water and used the damp paper to clean up most of the blood, thankful that my stubby nails hadn’t done too much damage. The wounds on my legs were fairly shallow and were only bleeding slightly.

My arms were a different story.

Though they weren’t too bad, the wounds on my arms were a little deeper than the ones on my legs, and they were bleeding a little more too. Luckily, I hadn’t injured myself badly enough to leave scars, but unless I covered up and wore long sleeves for a few weeks, the wounds on my arms were not going to escape notice.

Sighing sadly, I dumped the used toilet paper in the bin under the sink and hastily began unrolling the sleeves of my t-shirt, frustrated that they only reached up to my elbows. Running a hand through my tangled hair, I stared at the girl in the mirror and vowed that I was going to stop letting the voices get too me like this.

Never again, I promised myself. No more self-harm. No more crying. Never. Again.

Satisfied, I yanked open the bathroom door and rushed out, wanting to get into my room and change into something that covered up my self-inflicted marks. I had only made it a few steps when the sound of footsteps alerted me of the fact that I wasn’t alone anymore.

“October?”

Despite having heard it only a few times before, I recognized the voice instantly.

“What, Parish?” I answered without turning, groaning inwardly when I heard his footsteps grow louder and faster.

“Hey, hang on a sec, okay? I want to talk to you.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. I had the most unbelievably bad luck in the history of the universe, didn’t I? “Fine.” I gave in, slowing to a halt in the middle of the hallway and turning to face him.  “Talk.”

He ran a hand through his almost blond hair in uncertainty, “Look,” he started, mentally groping for the right words. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for the way I acted last night. And earlier this evening.”

I shook my head. “It’s fine.”

“No. It’s not. You were upset both times, and I was a massive jerk to you.”

“Really, Parish. It’s fine. I know it probably wasn’t on purpose…”

“Yeah, it wasn’t. But that still doesn’t make it— What’s that?”

I blinked at his abrupt change in topic and tone. “Huh?” I asked, smartly. “What’s what?”

“That!” he hissed nodding towards a few dark spots on the hardwood floor. My blood.

“Oh,” I could feel my heart begin to hammer away in my chest as Parish’s gaze moved from the spots on the floor, to the dark patches on the sleeve of my blue sweater. “That’s nothing… I just—”

Before I could even finish my sentence, he reached out and grabbed my arm. I tried to pull away, but the idiot had an iron grip on my arm, so my tugging was futile. “October…” He breathed in horror as he pushed my sleeve up to reveal the ugly marks my nails had carved into my flesh. “Did you do this to yourself?”

Ashamed, I nodded, unable to say anything in my defense. The words just wouldn’t come out. Still holding me tightly by the elbow, Parish cast a wary glance around the hallway, and once he saw the coast was clear, dragged me into the boy’s bathroom across the hall.

“What the—”

“Shh!” He let go of my arm and pressed a finger to my lips. “We’re both going to be in some serious trouble if anyone finds us here, so I suggest you keep your voice down.” I wanted very much to argue, but I knew he was right. So I shut up and sat down on the closed toilet seat, staring at him in indignation.

“Why the hell did you bring me here?” I demanded angrily.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he locked the bathroom door and then began rooting through the cabinet under the sink. A few seconds later, he pulled out a small white box from inside the cabinet and set it at my feet. A first aid kit.

Why hadn’t I thought of that?

“Hold still.” He ordered, unscrewing the cap of a brown bottle and pouring a bit of clear liquid onto a cotton ball. “This might sting a little.” He pressed the cotton ball gingerly onto the first cut, and I had to bite down on my bottom lip to keep myself from crying out in pain. After a few seconds, though, I got used to the stinging sensation and after that I barely noticed a thing. We sat there in silence, Parish cleaning my wounds and me watching him.

“Why’d you do it?” He asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Huh?”

“Why did you do it?” he repeated, shaking the hand he was holding slightly. “Why did you scratch yourself?”

“I don’t know.” I replied with a sigh. “It’s not something I did… intentionally.”

“What do you mean?”

“I do that, sometimes. When I’m feeling a little…”

“Overwhelmed?” He supplied, giving me a knowing look.

“Yeah…” I nodded slowly. “How did you know?”

He gave me a sad smile as he pulled another cotton ball from the kit and tossed the old one into the bin. “I used to do the same thing, when I was younger.” He confessed, rubbing more of the clear liquid into the wounds of my other arm. “Only I didn’t have nails like you do, so I used to cut myself with this blade I hid in my bedroom.”

“No one stopped you?” I asked, softly, unsure whether it was the right kind of question to ask.

He hesitated for a moment before replying. “For a long time, no one noticed.” My heart broke at that little piece of information. How could no one have noticed that he had been cutting? The same way no one had noticed my scratching, I guessed. “It went on until about a year ago, when my aunt visited and noticed the scars. She’s the one who finally put a stop to it.”

“You and your aunt are close?” I asked, noticing the slight change in his expression and tone when he mentioned her.

“”Yeah,” he nodded with a small smile. “We are.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say after that, so I let Parish continue his work in silence.

Once he was done cleaning the cuts with the clear liquid, he tossed the cotton ball into the bin and put the brown bottle back into the first aid kit, pulling out a small tube of cream instead. The cream felt like ice on a burn wound when he applied it onto the, now clean, scratches and I honestly felt a little twinge of disappointment when he put the tube back into the box.

“There.” He remarked, shutting the first aid kit with a soft snap and putting it back into the cabinet. “All done.”

I stretched my hands out in front of me, surveying Parish’s handiwork. The wounds had stopped bleeding completely and most of the redness had vanished. “Wow. You can barely notice them, now.”

“Yeah, because the red patches and the blood are all gone.” He explained. “You’ll still have to wear long sleeves for about a week. They’ll take about that long to heal.”

“Noted.” I smiled at him warmly. “Thanks so much, Parish.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled back, standing up and unlocking the bathroom door. “You’d better change and head down to dinner now.”

“You’re right.” I agreed, standing up and joining him at the door. “Sid will probably be wondering where I am.” I paused, looking for the proper words to help me say what I wanted to say. “Um, Parish...” I trailed off nervously.

“Don’t worry, October.” He chuckled softly, realizing what I’d been about to ask. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thanks.”

“Now go,” he whispered urgently, cracking the door open for me to slip through. “before someone catches us.”

Smiling, I slipped past him, and trotted down the hall, not stopping until I got into my room. Only once I was in the confines of my own room did I stop to think about what Parish had just done for me. Who’d have thought that the boy who’d been such a jerk to me the night before would actually go out of his way to help me like he just had? It certainly hadn’t crossed my mind.

As I stripped off my blood stained clothes, I decided that even if he flipped out on me again and became the raging jerk that he did when his personalities switched, I’d try not to be too mad at him.

Why? Because despite the multiple personality disorder, Parish Feltman – the boy who’d cleaned my wounds in the bathroom just now – was a pretty nice guy.