Etched on Me A Novel by Jenn Crowell

Author:Jenn Crowell
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: young adult, Psychology, Adult, Contemporary
ISBN: 9781476739069
Publisher: ATRIA BOOKS
Published: 2013-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

13

And so I became a concrete mixer, pouring the foundation of a new life down. I’d much rather have promoted myself to architect and sketched turrets and skylights, but Dr. P. insisted that I not go in for flourishes and grand plans till I’d gone off the self-harm for good.

All told, it took four months, and I worked my arse off to get there:

Pacing the floor.

Drawing mock cuts in red marker on my arms.

Telling myself to wait just five more minutes, and then, if I still felt that awful, I could do it.

Playing guitar, both to distract myself and (yes, I’ll admit it) relish the brutal-but-productive press of metal into my fingertips.

Analyzing my choices ad nauseam on Dr. P.’s whiteboard, drilling down with her dry-erase marker, my sloppy arrows delineating what she called a “behavior chain”: This is what made me vulnerable in the situation, this is what I thought, this is what the thought made me feel, this is how the feeling made me act, this was the short-term payoff, this was the long-term consequence.

Kickboxing in the Lodge’s gym, sweat in my eyes, my wrapped knuckles poised, my punches sloppy with fury.

Splashing handful after handful of water on my face, shuddering, reset by the bracing slapshock.

Paging Dr. P. at midnight, screaming “I can’t make it better!” (To which she replied dryly, “Well, then, don’t make it worse.”)

Bellowing entire albums worth of songs, paying no mind to Carina pounding on my bedroom door and bellowing back, “What the fuck you think this place is, the Nutter Idol stage?”

Fifth of November. That’s my version of a clean-and-sober date. Every year since, I’ve gone down the florist’s and bought myself a bouquet of Bouvardias and baby’s breath. Used to put it in an antique fluted vase I got at Camden Passage, but this autumn I reckon it’ll just be a few sad daises in a chipped mug.

• • •

Bonfire Night. I lay on my back on my bed, fresh off a gym session, my freshly washed hair trickling droplets down the back of my neck. With calloused fingers, I traced the glued outlines of the magazine photos Miss had clipped for her soul postcard: guitar, spoon, book, lover’s shoulder, blossoming belly.

I closed my eyes. Held the card to my chest. Got up, shuffled over to my desk, and propped the card back up against my copy of Ulysses. Gave its outline a loving stroke, like it was the narrow face of my greyhoundie, then padded down the hall in my sock feet.

In the kitchen, a bunch of the younger girls were dipping apples into a vat of melted toffee, staff stationed round them in a protective huddle. I sat atop the table and watched them shove each other as they speared the fruit. “Want one, Les?”

“Yeah, please,” I said, and reached over for a lopsided apple.

When I bit in, my mouth filled with richness, my lips smarted with sugarburn. Sticky slither down my chin. Tart crunch in my teeth. Fingers tipped with drippy melt.

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