Partial



She smiled, I could see her teeth white and her lips pink pulled thin across them. It was the first time I had seen her smile in days. Her eyes flickered around and hit mine and for a brief second I was plunged into her mind. I saw the world like she did-- I saw the sadness, the boredom, the lack of purpose, the lonliness, the burning overwhelming self-hatred. I saw glimpses of fingers intertwined together, of arms linked, of sweaty bodies in dark rooms, of tongues receeding in slow motion from wet lips; I saw all that she craved. I saw the computer screen glow in her wet eyes, the television images zooming across one after another, each one more sickeningly American than the last. I saw the flashcards she wrote dilligently, the information she memorized, worksheets she filled out and essays she wrote. I saw too the unopened books, the empty pages of binder paper, the lonely pens and pencils, the discarded knowledge that all of a sudden she realized she couldn't bring herself to learn. I saw the imprint of her body on the bed, the tear stains on the pillow, the echos of sobs and tears lingering next to the walls. I saw the reflection shimmering in the bathroom mirror as she stared directly into her eyes, wondering if anyone would ever gaze into them, wondering if anyone would ever lean in to tenderly kiss her lips, wondering if anyone would ever slide their arms around her fragile body and cradle her close. I saw her lashes thicken as the tears slid slowly to their ends, her pupils shrinking and her eyes narrowing as the tears spilled over and landed like raindrops on her hands and legs. I saw the friends she didn't have, the fun she didn't experience, the time she spent alone, no matter who was around her. I saw the desperate cries for attention and love, so obvious and needy one could hardly believe she was making them. I saw the safety pin she clutched in her fingers, daring herself to be strong enough to slash her arm with it. I saw the tiny droplets of blood released from her skin, the flesh puffing up around the break. I saw her glance down time and time again to see the swollen red scar, a symbol that she was something-- she was depressed, she was a cutter, that was better than nothing. It was better than anything, it made her strong and bold and true. I saw her face pressed into the pillow; her eyes shut behind her glasses; her head sunk down under the chlorinated stinging water; her black hood pulled up over her hair; her pain barely hidden in her body. I saw her lips recede back over her mouth, closing up the only opening, only invitation I could remember. Her body sunk back into itself after having been lifted up and out so momentarily, her hands fell down onto her lap and slid automatically into her sweatshirt pocket. Her eyes faded back down, green and bright but so dull, nothing there. Her mouth slipped into a straight set line, she was determind to keep it there-- how would she manage if she started feeling happy? Was she ever really happy? She could barely remember back two seconds ago when she had let herself slip, let her mouth open and her lips lift, let herself smile. I was on the outside but I knew now that she hadn't ever really smiled. Her eyes would stay dull and wet, her lips would stay straight and closed, her body would stay stationary and undisturbed. Her sadness would never escape.

Rachel Granberg
24 October 2002
Autobiographical at the time