Outside the window a bird is flying quickly to the nearest tree. The rain is accumulating on the outside world. Each drop is weighing down the flowers. Each cloud is darkening the sky. And there has never been a time when I have wanted more than anything to be out there.
"Grace.. Please, just answer me?"
I glance at my mother quickly in response. My eyes dart back to the window immediately, an involuntary action.
I think back to when it all began, when I first turned to that razor. There were tears streamed across my face, my breathing uneven, and my pulse bewildered. With millions of thoughts swimming through my mind, there was only one thing I was sure of- my next move. I plucked the razor without hesitation and made the initial cut.
From there, I was confined. The razor became the voice of reason. The blood became the possibility of better. And the scars, the many, many scars, became the indication that I was still around, and nothing in my life was changing.
"Grace? Answer me."
I thought about my disguise. Over the months, the scars totaled largely. Long sleeves and sweatshirts were the essentials of my wardrobe. Foundation was necessary to hide away the bags under my eyes, the bags that never went seemed to go away. A smile was worn daily, a mask to my true emotions.
"I just... I want... Oh, how did this..."
My mother is still waiting for me to speak. Why did she have to find out? Why did she have to see the scars? Did she really have to piece it all together? I want more than anything for her to understand, to accept me still.
I look up to her, knowing she deserves an answer. My voice cracks and the only words to come out are, "I'm sorry." She sits besides me and holds me as if I am a child again. I let out all the tears I've ever wanted to shed in front of the world.
And outside the rain is withering away. The sun is peaking through.