[Rynn]

So… I have had a lot more appointments, but haven't written them up. This is a tiny bit of the last appointment I had with Adam (as he was a student, he has now left after his one year thingy).

On my artwork thread, I also have a series of drawings I made that involve the idea of Adam helping me stop self harming. I considered putting them in here, but didn't want to double-post.

The following content has been hidden - Reason : The story involves a general description of my injuries

"canishowyou'causeiwontbeabletoshowanyoneforalongt ime?" the words rushed out between hands held defensively before lips, clutching long hair in tight fingers with a grip that had somehow gotten the idea that he might attack at any moment - reach out his hands to touch me in a contact so Real it would burn in echoing tingles.

"What?" he said, "You spoke so quietly." And I knew he hadn't heard me. And I knew I had mumbled and rushed and slid a thin, whispered breath out like a race horse of white, cold-morning mist. I knew - and I couldn't say it again.

No, I shook my head. No I didn't mean it I tried to say with my head that went back and forth but Inside me I did mean it and so I looked at the chair that is black and purple in little woven squares because I couldn't meet his eyes and I smiled because I was so uncomfortable so the smile was gross and had eyebrows that pinched up at the center and down at the sides because it was a smile that was hurting and scared and upset Inside and I couldn't, couldn't say it again because it was bad, so bad, so STUPID to say --

"Did you say 'can I show you'?" he asked.

He had heard. How…?

"yes" I said quietly, lips small together, chin tucked down, shoulders hunched. I couldn't look at him. It was so bad of me. I'm not supposed to show. It's not good. It is bad. It is attention seeking. But it is so heavy some days, the long sleeves that can never move up. It is so much sometimes. And - I regretted the other times I wanted to show but didn't. And I wouldn't get the chance for a long time. And never with Adam.

He said, "Yes, you can show me." And then he added, "If it's an appropriate place." and I said "yes" because I'd only ever meant to show him my arm. And he let me have the silence and the time and I looked at him and I looked at the Nothing between us and the seconds were long and many, and then

I pulled up my sleeve.

There was no magic. The moment was empty, silent, still. And that was what made it so real.

It was me, staring at the same white and pink and red scars that I have seen hundreds, maybe thousands of times. Just me, looking at my arm, black volleyball sleeve pushed up near my elbow and palm up and arm extended so casually. White skin, pink lines, silver lines, pink blotches, purple lines. Just a patch of marks on a limb. Adam was silent in the background, out of eye sight. I looked for a while. The burns were pink, nearly all healed. I lifted my hand to my face, showing him the back of my arm for a moment where two burns were near healed then I pulled my sleeve back up.

He thought for a moment. I looked at him. Quiet. He was calm. Passive. Not emotionless, but not emotion-full. Passive. Calm. Gentle.

He asked, "Does it hurt?"

I was surprised. "What?"

"Does your arm hurt?" he asked.

"No." I said. My eyes were big. I felt like I was looking at someone who was me but who was not me and I was looking into her eyes and they were honest and open. No, I thought in my head. No. It is healed.

But the words stayed in my head. They stayed afterwards and the next day and they are still in my head and saying "Does it hurt?…your arm?… no…no…no…Does it hurt?" and I look at my arm and I think of my arm and how it looked and I think of his words. "Does it hurt?" and I realized - the pink he saw was not healing to his eyes. The scars he saw were not fading and less than before. The scars he saw were many more than he saw last time, almost a year ago, and they were red with some sort of pain he knows I feel and do not express right. Somehow, he saw my scars with eyes much different than mine. Mine were cold. Harder. Like my hands that scrub so hard over cuts, uncaring, rough. His were like hands that dab and brush lightly over and around the injury because it is on someone else and you care about them and you don't know what it feels like to them exactly and you don't want to hurt them so you are slow and gentle and delicate. His eyes looked at lines of scar tissue and the remnants of scabs and the redness of recent burns and saw something of what had caused them. I looked at them, and saw no such thing. And so his words rattle around my mind because -

because I wish I could have eyes like that. And because he does, because his eyes saw all of that in me - I wasn't just some kid who showed up every once in a while to see him for an hour. He - I -

his words said that i meant something to him. And that is the most beautiful thing.