My parents are divorced, and that’s probably all you need to know about me. They split when I was seven, and it kind of fucked me up. I never thought it was all my fault like everyone wants to believe – they both talked to me a lot about it. It was my dad’s fault, and we all know it. My feelings were a lot more complicated, and I guess I still haven’t got it all worked out.

My dad’s an alcoholic. I guess I didn’t really know what that meant when I was seven. He just drank a lot of beer, which is what I thought all dads were supposed to do. Maybe he didn’t know what it meant, either. Either way, what I do remember is that he and mom fought a lot, and she’d scream at him just as much as he did. He never beat her – he never laid a hand on either of us – but I always got scared when they fought, and I’d hide in my room and cry.

I never felt like it was my fault, but I did feel guilty. When dad took a day off work and we hung out, we had such good times that I thought days with dad were what the world was made for. Sometimes it was just a simple trip to the park; sometimes he took me into the city and we’d go to a museum. Not the boring kind, though – he knew the ones that had dinosaur bones and medieval armor and children’s boots from a hundred years ago. Sometimes, on a rainy day, we’d just stay at home all day and play Monopoly and listen to heavy metal.

And my mom…she was just there. She was there when I needed her, and there when I didn’t. Sometimes she was there even though I didn’t want her to be; I still hate cleaning my room. My mom was the one I talked to when Keila tripped me in the hallway and laughed when my stockings split right in the back.  She was the one who made a cake for me when Jess didn’t invite me to her birthday. She was the one who screamed down the phone at Rob’s parents because he called me a bitch, even though I didn’t know what it meant.

It wasn’t the last time I’d be called that.

No; I love my parents, and I’m pretty sure they love me too. The reason I felt so guilty about the divorce is that there wasn’t anything I could do. My parents had always told me I could do anything I put my mind to, and here was something I couldn’t do anything about. Nothing. […]

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STEVE: Hello, Amy. It’s good to see you again. How are you today?

AMY: Fine.

STEVE: That’s good to hear. What’s been going on this week?

AMY: I don’t know. Nothing.

Pause.

AMY: My dad hates me.

STEVE: Why do you say that?

AMY: ’Cause he does. He’s always yelling at me.

STEVE: Okay. Why does he yell at you?

AMY: I don’t know. ’Cause he’s an asshole.

Pause.

AMY: He shouted at me about the stupid dishes.

STEVE: What did he say?

AMY: I don’t know. Some shit about money and how he works hard all day.

STEVE: How did that make you feel?

AMY: Angry.

STEVE: What did you say in return?

AMY: I told him mom works too.

STEVE: What did he say about that?

AMY: He went and got drunk. Then he fucked mom.

STEVE: Did that upset you?

AMY: Yeah.

Pause.

STEVE: What did you do?

AMY: I listened to music.

STEVE: Did you cut?

AMY: Yeah, but it didn’t have anything to do with that.

STEVE: Was it to see the blood again?

AMY: Yeah.

STEVE: Why is seeing the blood important to you?

AMY: I don’t know. It just looks pretty.

STEVE: May I see?

Pause.

STEVE: They don’t look too bad. Did it hurt?

AMY: Not really. It’s like, if it’s sharp enough you don’t even feel it.

STEVE: Do you wish it did hurt?

AMY: No. I don’t like pain. Why?

STEVE: Often self-harmers will do it because they feel it’s the only way for them to feel anything. To break through the numbness.

AMY: I don’t want to break through the numbness. I like it.

STEVE: Why is that?

Pause.

AMY: I don’t know. It’s…like it’s comfortable.

STEVE: Can you tell me more about that?

AMY: I don’t know. It’s like when you’re wrapped up under the blankets and all the lights are off, and there’s just…nothing, it’s like you’re in this deep black place where there’s just nothing, nothing around you, no people, no things…it’s not even like you’re floating, it’s just warm and comfortable and black. Deep down, down below everything else.

STEVE: Like a grave?

AMY: Yeah, I guess. That’s one way of looking at it. Yeah…I like that. Like a grave.

STEVE: Why is being in a grave comforting to you?

AMY: ’Cause it’s safe.

STEVE: Interesting. What are you safe from?

Pause.

AMY: Everything.

STEVE: All the things that can harm you?

AMY: And all the thing that can’t. Just…everything.

STEVE: Can you give me examples of things you want to be safe from?

Pause.

AMY: I don’t want to talk about it.

STEVE: Okay.

Pause.

STEVE: Is there anything else you would like to talk about?

AMY: I don’t know.

Pause.

STEVE: Last week you talked about how your parents are going away for your birthday. You said they did ask if you were okay with them not being there.

AMY: It’s not like they wouldn’t have gone anyway. They don’t give two shits about me. […]

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It is a dark city on such a late summer evening. The sun is blood over the rooftops, and the girl in the park is sitting in the last rays passing between the old brick buildings.

It is a small park, of course; not much more than a few benches and a couple of old trees, but it is a refuge in a town that is huge, and busy. The trees haven’t begun to turn yet, and the grass and paths are golden in the spaces between their leaves. There are people, and they pass through, but they are few, and don’t spare the girl a glance.

The girl is sixteen; looks fourteen. The cigarette hangs in her hand, ash burned back almost to her fingertips. Black hood over her head and black jeans to her boots, she’s like a darker shadow in the shade of the trees. A lock of crimson hangs forward, and the small silver nose ring glints a little. Under the hoodie is a lace top, black also, and at her breast is a silver pendant: a silver crucifix entwined with snakes. A choker holds a black glass heart with a skull inside to her throat.

Her eyes — hazel, and green — are on the ground, and they wince as the ash burns to her fingers, but she doesn’t let go; only bites her black-stained lip. Not until the purse by her side vibrates does she drop the butt, conscientious enough to crush it. She reaches into the bag, past the driver’s license that says she’s sixteen and the ID that says she’s eighteen, to pull out the battered phone. The little screen says where r u.

She fiddles and sends a reply; stows the phone again. She raises her eyes — not her head — and looks: the trees, the pigeon, the passers-by. There is a moment, brief, when only the girl and the squirrels are in the park, and she gets up, the purse strap across her chest and her hands deep in the hoodie.

Her walk is slow, a little shuffling, her head always down. Her boots are good leather, well-worn, and tap gently against the pavement. They guide her along a path out of the park, though she steps to the grass to avoid the people who are once again passing through.

Where she leaves the park is a sidewalk that runs along the narrow street, cars parked tight in the gutter. She turns onto this; follows the iron fence to the corner. Her head is always down, and she steps onto the street to a screech and the blast of a horn.

Stopped in the middle of the street, a battered pickup continues to scream at her, also stopped in the middle of the street.

“The fuck, girl! What the hell’s wrong with you?”

And she looks up now, and stares at him; her breathing is quick and her eyes empty.

“Get the fuck out of the way!” […]

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