Razor Ch. 02

"Tell your daughters, or more like show them, that you love them, make them see that they don't need to perform, that they don't need to excel. Make them see that you love them for who they are. Don't force them to bend themselves into tiny pretzel's just to get your attention. But, support them if they're really interested in something... I suppose it's not such an easy task... just show them you love them, ok?"

I looked at my hands, letting her words sink in, my thoughts and feelings calm and balanced. I did show my daughters that I loved them and I did tell them. There was nothing I wouldn't do to show them that they meant the world to me, that one twin owned one half of my heart and the other one owned the rest of it.

"Sometimes I wished my brother would just go away, because perhaps then my father would see me, would love me," she whispered before she laughed a soft bitter laugh that ended with a sigh "but when my brother crashed my father's car into a tree, killing himself and one of his friends, seriously injuring two more friends, no hard words of 'the sin of drinking and driving' was mentioned in the house. Our family and our house grew quiet. My father took comfort in drinking and my mother silenced my questions about the sins of drinking with a pinch or a hard slap. Life went on, my father grew quiet, and because I didn't know better, I thought I might be able to make him happy... but of course I couldn't, I was just a girl..."

She sat staring down at her hands for a short while before she started singing again.

"So I cry and I pray and I beg

Love me, love me Say that you love me Fool me, fool me Go on and fool me

Love me, love me Pretend that you love me Leave me, leave me Just say that you need me"

I almost didn't recognize the song she sang, because she let her sadness leak through every single word of it, and she sang it even more slowly than her first song. At the end of her short and intense interpretation I could feel goosebumps covering my body, my reaction to her song and her words almost too strong. And behind it all a message she wanted me to listen to, and boy had she given me a lot to think about! I had always thought, I still did, that I showed my daughters that I loved them, but did I always give them my loving support? Did I treat them both the same, or did I compare them to each other? Did I make one feel less valuable or worthy than the other? They were just so different from each other. Alanna was active, but more calm and content, very much like me, Zelena was almost always running around, never sitting still, always talking... always getting the both of them in trouble... Of course I compared them... but I didn't think I'd ever said anything out loud...?

I was pulled out of my troubled thoughts by her continuing her storytelling.

"My father used his new car to end his life not many months later. A loud and clear message, that me and my mom weren't good enough for him, we weren't reason enough to keep living. His final, unspoken words to his teen daughter being 'I don't love you, you're just not good enough'..."

The room was once more filled by silence... stomach-curling silence. I didn't even know your stomach could curl in a bad way, wasn't that supposed to be a pleasant feeling? I held my breath and looked at her. It didn't take any great profiling skills to read her body language. She had her arms wrapped around her waist, her shoulders high, her eyes staring at the floor just in front of her, following the zigzag pattern with her eyes, back and forth, up and down. She was fighting hard to hold herself in one piece.

I waited silently for her to continue her story, somehow knowing that she wasn't quite done yet. Her pain felt so real, almost tangible, it felt as if I could simply reach out and touch it. I heard her take a deep breath and with a low, tense voice she continued.

"The only person who'd been able to keep my mother's religious, fanatic tendencies at bay was now gone. And me, being the sinful creature that I was, needed help finding the righteous path. Every appreciative comment from teachers, relatives, friends or neighbors was treated as another sign of my corruption, my rotten core. On the evening of my father's funeral I was sent to bed without food, because one of my father's cousins had complimented my mother for her beautiful daughter. And for a year I was corrected in hundreds of different ways, no food, no sleep, cold baths, sitting completely still on a hard chair in the kitchen, listening to quotes from the bible... or being locked in the small closet underneath the stairs..."

Another stomach-curling silence consumed me, and I had to force myself to sit still, to not stand up in frustration and start walking up and down the room.

"My mother joined a religious group, known for its strict beliefs... but in the end, her beliefs and specifically her thoughts about sinful behavior were too extreme for them and she was asked to not come back. Then when she got sick a few months later and especially after the 'you've got cancer'-message she got from the doctors, she turned her criticism from me on to herself, the proof of her own sinfulness growing fast inside her. And of course she refused treatment. It took her six months to die, and I didn't know if I should cry or laugh as I sat there holding her hand as she took her last breath. In the end I did neither, I just stood up and walked out of the hospital, I had made sure she got there in the end, you see. I walked out, down the street, one block away, then another and another. I didn't stop until night fell, and then I curled up in a corner and fell asleep. I was found roaming the streets three days later by a kind police officer and his angry partner. A day later I was transported to a foster family, one of those families you see in every other drama series, two foster parents who couldn't care less about the kids, happily accepting good money for a badly done job. I was 17 years old then, had lost both my parents, and I was put in an unfriendly fish tank with other young, hostile 'fish'..."

She was silent once more, staring down at her feet, but she took a deep breath and let it out slowly and then started talking again.

"After years with minimum amounts of love, with constant reminders of my flaws, with punishments made in the name of love and care, I finally ended up in an environment totally stripped of human kindness. And that's where it all really started..." she said, once more whispering.

She straightened out and pulled the arms of her long t-shirt up with quick movements. She had strong, capable hands and well-muscled arms, but that was not what she wanted to show me. Her arms were completely covered by old scars, short, long, thin, wide, straight, crooked, crisscrossing. I stared once more at her, trying to grasp the anguish that would make a person hurt herself that way, thinking about the pain she had inflicted on herself, because there was no doubt in my mind that she had done it all to herself.

"It started as small, superficial cuts, the kinds that don't leave permanent marks. And one or two small cuts would usually make the anxiety go away, but as time passed in the 'gray zone', the anxiety grew and more and more pain was needed to wash it all away..."

She lifted her eyes up and met mine, and I saw one teardrop roll down her cheek, even as she kept her face tight but surprisingly neutral.

"Whether it's cutting yourself, anorexia, bulimia, letting people use you sexually and yes, hundreds of other things, you should know it often starts small, and if you don't stop it early, it will almost never end well. It doesn't take much for a person to become a self-hater, just a few words from a parent, a teacher, a not-so-very-good friend. There's too many people that are set on pulling a person down instead of building him or her up. Your girls are still young, but they will soon hit puberty, and that is usually where the real troubles start. Make sure they know that you love them, listen to them, both the spoken words and the unspoken, watch them, know them, help them."

She stood up, made sure her arms were covered up, straightened and stretched. She nodded to me and walked out. Before she opened the door, she turned back, hesitating shortly, obviously worried about something.

"One of the teachers at your daughters' school - a Ms Roberts - has two previous warnings for mistreating kids, in two other school districts. It seems that she responds badly to so called 'lively kids', and I thought you should know. It only takes one bad comment or one harsh correction for a sensitive child to become... well... me, and I'm sure you wouldn't want that...?"

She walked out of the room and I sat down, shocked, her last words echoing in my mind. Ms Roberts? My kids' mentor Ms Roberts? The Ms Roberts that Alanna had talked about with angry words, the Ms Roberts Zelena hadn't mentioned at all? Fuck! What was it she'd said? Watch them, know them, help them?

I stood up, anger filling me, giving everything a slightly red tinge. I was angry that someone was hurting my daughters, angry that I hadn't seen it. But I saw it all very clearly now, didn't I? The slight change in the twin dynamic, Alanna's worried looks, Zelena dragging her feet, my stressed out mornings.

I got up and got out, phone in my hand. Time to stop this, now, and worry about the consequences later.

* * * * *

I felt nauseous as I left his room, and on the way out I passed the ladies room to throw some cold water on my face. I wasn't going to get sick in a public restroom, I just wasn't. I leaned my head against the cold mirror, set on forcing all the painful thoughts that were spinning in my mind back behind the now brittle walls where I used to keep my memories hidden.

That had been even harder than I had thought it would be, difficult on a completely new scale. My dear mom and dad and the subconscious truths they had helped me create. It was strange the way those early feelings of inadequacy still lingered, and I knew that my current problems, always running fast and faster, could at least partly be blamed on a need to prove something, to them, to myself, to the world. Always moving, never settling down, also ensured that I never had the time to stop and think about myself, and I never took the time to check my own systems to see if they were all up and running as they should; I suppose I just didn't want to know. My inner drunken clown was trying to balance far too many plates on far too many sticks, whilst drinking espresso and fiddling with his phone at the same time.

I stared at my face in the mirror, the paleness of my skin, the dark circles under my eyes, the vivid colors of my eyes and hair. After years and years of hating myself in countless ways, I had come to terms with my looks, there was nothing wrong with the way I looked really, not even the color of my eyes or hair. I had had a few years of constantly remodeling myself to fit other people's preferences, but I had figured out long ago that physical perfection didn't make for a happier life. Trying to adapt my personality was even more devastating, and except for sometimes hiding my true self behind a neutral mask, I no longer strived to fit in. I still found happiness in my achievements, but what really gave me a sense of true joy was meeting my friends, following their lives and helping them whenever I could, mostly by pointing out the obvious solutions to small everyday problems, sometimes doing the whole fairy godmother thing, very secretly of course.

I walked out of the bathroom, set on continuing my day and night as I usually did every Friday; tending my own mental and emotional health first, then seeing to other people's. I hoped I would be more successful in the latter. I could feel my ever-present inner "got to get moving, get things done" spiral tightening, there was no calm to be had, not soon, if ever.

As I walked to the car I thought about Sarah and the way she had called me just a few days ago, desperately crying, telling me about her lover's ex-wife threatening that poor family. I had made sure I knew everything about John, Sam, and the wicked mother from the very start, and I had already prepared a plan, how to handle the aggressive mother, when, not if, she needed handling. I hadn't really planned on confronting her myself, but my brain always short-circuited slightly, when people, especially kids, were being mistreated.

Behind the desperate aggressiveness of the woman, Jane, Sam's mother, I could see an almost equally desperate sadness, and I hoped it would be enough for her to be able to turn her life around. I was glad that I'd been able to get her to listen to me, through all that desperation, glad that she had accepted my offer to be taken to another side project of mine, the Delilah Institute. She would be taken care of, in the best possible way, but as always, it was the addict's own strength and dedication that would make the difference between success and failure. I had earned that knowledge the hard way, not just once, but every time I fell into a new addiction, be it drugs, gaming, working, eating, you name it. I was getting better at noticing when an interest or behavior passed from normal to obsessive and then into addiction, but I had never been able to address the underlying issues, to stop the repetitive patterns. I wasn't stupid though, I knew the answers were probably hidden in that nasty box of memories mixed with emotions I had just opened the lid to, and I so hoped that what I had started wasn't going to lead to mass-extinction. I needed to make sure that all of the people I cared for were safe, happy, protected and that they never found out about the secrets I kept from them, bad secrets that wouldn't make anyone happy if they were found out.

I thought about William, and all the secrets I kept from him. I wouldn't tell him everything, but there was one more thing I had to share, one more thing I needed to unburden myself of. I suspected he would break our agreement after I told him, and I knew I would never be allowed to see him again. But asking for his forgiveness was something I needed to do, and even if he was just one of very many people that I had hurt, he had somehow become the most important one to me. I would never tell him but I took great comfort in knowing that I loved him.

I settled in my car and started the engine, the roar of it waking me from my sad thoughts. Words kept bouncing around in my head, mass-extinction and repetitive patterns, and a box that could save the world from all sorts of nastiness. I smiled as I realized my mind would keep me busy all weekend long, designing new solutions that could be built and sold to the highest bidder. I did have pretty expensive hobbies, being the patron saint of all of the sinners in the world didn't after all come cheap.

I let myself relax in the luxurious seat of my car, another one of those expensive hobbies, and I laughed at the picture of me as a saint to anyone. Once a sinner, always a sinner, my mother had used to say, and perhaps she was right, but one thing was for certain, her devil of a daughter would never turn to religion to find any answers, not even when she was hanging on the proverbial thread, waiting for her life to end.