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He was doing it for attention at first, he was pretty sure—attention from Mom, Shane, and anybody who would give it to him. Carl would take handfuls of band-aids from the bathroom and put them on his nightstand. He would go out of his way to repeat over and over on grocery runs that he needed more razor blades, even though just the week before he had bought some. He would wear long sleeves in hot, humid, Georgia weather and refuse to take them off or roll them up.
During the summers, popsicle residue would roll down the stick, through his fingers, and seep into his sleeve, but he wouldn’t take off his jacket. It would stay plastered to his skin even as he overheated and nearly sweat to death. All Mom would say to him was, “You have tank tops, you know?”
Carl wore a tank top once. His bandaged shoulders and arms were on full display. Some of the older ones were uncovered. So long as they were scabbed over, he would show them off. A badge of honor. Something to be proud of. Mom would glance over and look back at what she was doing. Shane would roll his eyes.
They never asked. The deluded part of himself—the part that was still convinced he was trying to hide this—was glad they didn’t. But the overwhelming part of him was hollowed out and heavy at the knowledge that no, they didn’t care.
Enid asked. Her eyes flit back and forth from his shoulders to the fireworks going off as they sat in the back of Shane’s truck on the Fourth of July. Afterward, when they were walking while Mom and Shane drank beer and talked to random people she said, “Is it better or worse than drugs, do you think?”
Carl almost laughed at her but stopped himself by biting his cheek until it crunched and digging his nails into his palms. “Depends on who you are. I guess.” His voice was rough. He hated it.
She kicked a rock. It skidded out far in front of her. When she went to kick it again, it shot off from the sidewalk, and down a hill. “I know a chick who makes herself puke.” Maybe she was trying to help.
Carl side-eyed her. He opened and closed his mouth multiple times before clearing his throat. “Stupid.”
“Not more stupid than that.” Enid pointed to his shoulders. Carl deflated and felt hollow again.
At least she asked. He thought.
He went to go stay with his dad and he hid it from him. Dad gave him attention. Dad worried about him and would rest his hand on the side of his neck look dead into his eyes and tell him things equally useful and useless. He didn’t do it while at Dad’s. Until he turned fifteen. He had been doing it for two years, then, and it had turned into something sicker than longing for his mother to pay even the slightest bit of attention to him.
He had run out of room on his shoulders and moved onto his thighs. He had a routine. He would come home—because now he lived mainly with his dad, and not with his mom and Shane—he would do homework, he would eat dinner, he would endure teasing from his Dad about his relationship with Ron, his face would turn bright red, then he would go to his room and lock the door. Carl would lie on his bed and tap his fingers against his chest to a rhythm he knew from somewhere, but he couldn’t place where.
His thighs and his hips and his shoulders would itch and sometimes ache, and he would grit his teeth hard down into themselves until he thought they might break. Which felt fine. He had thought once about taking pliers and prying his molars out from his mouth just to see what it would feel like. He had told Ron that, and he had blown cigarette smoke from his mouth and said, “Nah, man, don’t do that. You’ve got all your teeth all grown in and stuff. Getting teeth knocked out before that sucks, but getting them knocked after has gotta suck more.”
Carl didn’t want to think about why Ron knew so much about how removing teeth felt. Unfortunately for him, his mind specialized in thinking about things he didn’t want to think about, so he had thought about it that same day while sitting on the stairs of the school. “What teeth have you had knocked out?”
Ron looked at him a little weird then replied, “Uh….my two front teeth. I was like seven, they weren’t ready to come out. I was toothless for like a year and a half man, it sucked.”
Carl hummed and watched his cigarette smoke between his fingers. He licked his lips and grabbed his jeans tight. Ron went to ask if he wanted to smoke it—or one of his own—but before he could get the words out, Carl asked, “Can you put that out on me?”
Ron had blinked at him and stared at him for a really long time and Carl had contemplated just going home and slicing his wrists open to the bone, then Ron reached over and put it out on his boot. “I don’t wanna fuck up your skin. It’s super fucking smooth.”
He usually thought about that while he lay there, drumming his fingers, and dug up next the memory of Ron sliding his jacket from his shoulders before Carl could process he agreed to that and his hands running over his scarred shoulders. He had stopped to look, but it had been so discrete that if Carl had been a different, less paranoid person, he wouldn’t have noticed. Ron didn’t say anything, and Carl gave him the same courtesy when he took off his shirt and his stomach was bruised purple and yellow.
It was the one time somebody had seen and not asked that made Carl feel good. Ron would still fuck him. He didn’t care. He didn’t have a reason to stop. That was when he, most nights, would reach into his nightstand drawer and grab the thin razor blade, and draw it across his thighs, or his shoulders, if he could stomach going over old scars.
It didn’t take him long, he didn’t spend too much time on it. It wasn’t anything special. He did it every night, like brushing his hair. He would bandage them next, then go to bed. He wouldn’t feel the pull again until the next night.
Even though Ron didn’t give a reason to stop, he lessened the need. If Carl was focused more on him, and his lips and his hands and the way he grabbed Carl’s waist and moved him around like he weighed nothing but paper, (even though Carl was stronger than he was), he didn’t think about nearly as much. He couldn’t spend every waking moment with Ron, though, and Ron liked to be alone most of the time.
One night he texted him and asked if he wanted to go somewhere. Do something. Anything. Ron hadn’t replied for two hours, by that time Carl was deeply engrossed in attempting to do calculus and failing. When he did text back, all he said was, at the stupid fucking bridge.
The stupid fucking bridge was just an ordinary bridge, but Ron hated it for some reason. Carl didn’t think much of it. He told his dad where he was going, to which he said, “You have got to find a better name for that place…take a knife.” Carl took a knife.
Carl walked about half a mile to the bridge. It was old and grey and arched over a small creek not far from a park. Ron was sitting on the ledge of it with smoke pouring from his lips and from between his fingers. Carl threw his legs over the edge and leaned over, smiling, then he stopped. There was blood slowly dripping from Ron’s lip. It was split down the middle and staining his cigarette. He had a cut under his eye that came with a bruise. His eye was swelling up and Carl wondered if he would be able to see out of it tomorrow.
Carl didn’t say anything for a while. When he did, he chose to say, “He’s gonna kill you.”
Ron laughed. Actually laughed. A belly laugh so hard that caused him to grab onto the stone ledge with bruised fingertips and broken nails. Carl chuckled lightly and felt sick to his stomach. Tears were pouring down Ron’s face he laughed so hard. In fact, it Carl a long time to notice that his manic laughter had turned into sobs because there was virtually no difference in sound. He only realized when Ron choked out, “Man, I miss my mom.” With a shaky voice and put out his cigarette on the brick.
Carl had even less to say now than he had before. He put a hand on Ron’s back, and Ron put his face into Carl’s shoulder to cry. Carl tried not to wince. Slices he had pressed into his skin from last night were still raw. He thought he was doing a good job at it, but Ron noticed the tensing and backed away. He took deep breaths and his inconsolable sobbing turned to nothing but heavy breathing and a trembling voice in a matter of seconds. “He’s gonna kill you.” Carl raised an eyebrow.
“Who?”
“You.” Ron gestured to his shoulders first, then his entire being.
Carl’s heart sunk to his stomach and hit the bottom of his belly with a heavy thud. Maybe that was why he was so nauseous. “I thought you didn’t care.”
Ron’s eyes widened, and an insane smile spread across his face. He chuckled, then snorted, and then his shoulders shook with some kind of silent amusement that Carl didn’t understand. “You’re in AP classes…how the fuck are you in AP classes…”
“Fuck you—” “I’m sorry,” Ron said and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, man. We’re both gonna die. That’s not funny.”
Carl swallowed. He turned from Ron and looked at the water below the bridge. It was dark, the moon reflected in it, and so did the streetlamp, but not their faces. Thank God for that. Ron’s hand grabbed his. His knuckles were bruised and Carl’s were red. Ron’s hand was cold and clammy and almost downright unpleasant then, but at the same time, it made Carl feel less nauseous.
“Why?” Ron asked him.
Carl let out a long breath. “Attention. At first. I didn’t get that so…routine. Security. I guess.” Carl glanced over to a bruise on Ron’s jaw he hadn’t noticed, then back at the dark water. “Why haven’t you gone to…social services or…something?”
“I uh…” Ron’s voice wasn’t shaky anymore. It was thick and low and rough. “I love him.”
Carl ground his teeth together again. He squeezed Ron’s hand.
The crickets were chirping, some frogs were croaking. A car sped down the road every ten minutes. If Carl listened hard enough he could hear the streetlamps buzz.
It was a nice night.