Criss-Cross Applesauce

By L. M. Boulevardes

Criss-cross, applesauce

Do me a favor – get lost.

- American children's hand game

She's good at getting lost.

Good at losing herself in her head, and in her pain, in the cut-cut-cuts (Shh, they don't exist) that go up and down and back up on her arms. She wears long sleeves, and long pants, and no one sees and she's in horrible pain and she doesn't know why, expect it hisses in her ear (yes you do, oh yes you do).

She started last year, and now she doesn't know how to stop and it's scary, but kind of okay at the same time? The first time she did it, it was after a school dance when no boy kissed her and no friend asked if she was alright and she just felt so fucking lonely and then . . .

Ah.

It felt so goddamn good.

Every time something bad happens, she cuts. And something bad seems to happen every day now. Criss-cross –

(Her arms)

Applesauce –

(The blood the drips)

Do me a favor –

("Hi, I'm Carly – ")

GET LOST.

(Cut.

Cut.

Cut.)

She cuts herself in snippets and ribbons, and when that stops being enough, she cuts herself up even more. Then she scream if the blood spurts (that's only happened once, (once!) when she made a stupid mistake) and she's learned she has to be very very quiet, even when it hurts. Actually, especially when it hurts.

It's a game now. A sick and twisted game, but a game none the less. Cut, cut – Don't scream. Don't scream. She sits in her room, holding black wash clothes against her arms and legs to make sure that the bleeding eventually stops.

Criss-cross.

Crosses, on her arms.

Like Jesus.

(It seemed like a fitting metaphor at the time?)

She moans, and reminds herself that it's a game, and even though the blood spurted, she's going to be fine.

Because she has to be –

Right?