Kiss Slowly, Speak Quickly

'I hate this place. I hate this place. I hate this place. Get me out of here!'

I rested my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. What better place to feel sick to your stomach than a nurses's office right?

People ran in and out and in again, each greeting the young lady and ignoring her escort. Nothing new. They would ask what happened. She would claim herself a klutz and wave her hand, explaining how the cut came about, never once did she really lie about it.

Not that I realized all that until later. I just wanted out. I kept pulling my sleeves down habitually, arms crossed over my chest. No one needed to know. I wasn't ready to tell anyone. Not authority or whatever they gave that title to anyway. Not the teachers. Not the nurse. Not the garbage can if they called that Mr. or Mrs. I wasn't even planning to make it known to...to...what was her name again?

I was too distracted. I was practically praying that she wouldn't tell them what really happened.

What really happened would mean another session with the school counselor (who didn't care about me anyway). It would mean another therapy session with a new psychiatrist (more medicine that never did anything for me). Another bill on my parents (and another grounding for causing it).

And questions. So many questions, so many questions. "Why are you cutting? (...) Do you want to stop? (I don't know.) How long has it been? (Since I started or the last one?) How is life at home? (Horrible.) Does your mother provide for you? (I'm lucky the school sells supplies and I save money from Christmases and birthdays when my parents don't get to it first.) Is your father a good man? (As good as a sorry old drunk can be.) Has either ever hit you? (You should be worried about more than hitting.) Do they make you cut? (Almost as much as you do.)"

I wasn't ready to answer the questions, but I wasn't ready to put up another front. I couldn't. I felt my leg starting to bounce rapidly and my breathing get heavier.

"You should go back to class," the girl startled me back to life.

Looking around, I found no one aside from us. The door was open, and the office outside of it was busily buzzing. Feeling at least safer than I had, I shook my head slowly and whispered so quietly she was forced to lean closer to hear me, "No. They won't miss me anyway, and at this point I don't have a chance of passing because all my teachers hate me."

"They hate you?"

"Hate," I answered, "with a passion that burns so deep I can feel it in every ignorant glare when I walk in the room. They all think I'm stupid, and I don't blame them."

She opened her mouth to speak, but quickly shut if and smiled up at the nurse who had joined us once more with bandages and disinfectant. "It may need a few stitches," the nurse announced, "and this my sting a bit."

I looked away from the hand as they unwrapped it again and listened to a dull hiss of what I assumed was pain. Just another problem caused by me.

Notes

Oh my gosh, y'all, I am so sorry! It's been way too long! To all the faithful subscribers of this story, thank you for sticking with me! I had just lost the muse for this for so long, and I just got it back. Thank y'all. Honestly. So much. I hope you enjoy! And, as always, I'm open to suggestions. If you want to see something specific happen (within the realms of my limitations or the limitations of the story), don't hesitate to message me! Thanks again! Be blessed!