The door of Nia’s apartment painfully swung open as she stumbled in, purse dangling from her wrist because of the bag of groceries she lugged into the kitchen. The bag was deposited on one of the old Formica counters, and the purse was tossed onto the battered brown chair positioned in front of the small television.
The apartment was humble, though not an inch of space had been wasted. A couch against the wall was framed by two narrow, black bookcases. Linoleum flooring announced that one had entered the kitchen area, with the fridge, oven, cabinets, a counter, and a tiny window over the sink, which was over-flowing with dirty dishes.
Nia began unpacking her meager gatherings, for, on her salary, it was all she could afford after taxes and rent. An inspection of the fridge revealed two six-packs of Cherry Coke, Chinese take-out from the night before, a bag of salad greens, a bundle of carrots, leftover pizza, a gallon of milk, and a wedge of cheese. Most of the supplies, however, were freeze-dried instant foods. She stopped to ponder that America had become a ‘just-add-water’ nation, and the same went for the withered promises of the American Dream. Everything from rice to fortunes could be made in a minute, but then, rice will over-cook if you let it go too long.
Opening a cabinet, Nia choked on a breath and fell into a fit of deep coughing that shook her chest from within. The empty apartment rang with the harsh sound of her hacking, which soon died away. She sat down on the floor, dizzy and lightheaded. Truly, Nia should have stayed in that day, but money must be made; Uncle Sam doesn’t care if you’re sick and it’s below zero out there.
The water stains on the ceiling were interesting, almost hypnotic, and Nia stared at them, mesmerized for a long time. Finally, she hefted herself up and finished putting away the groceries. It didn’t take a long time, and she put the television on for company. Humming along to the light jingle of a car commercial, Nia was soon finished, and sat in her soft, brown chair to watch the news. She was getting home later and later, though she now went in to work at 5:00am. The day just didn’t seem to have enough hours.
A friend had once brought up the idea of annexing Wednesday and distributing its hours among the remaining days. It had been a joke back in high school, but now Nia was wishing that it was a reality. A twenty-eight hour day would certainly be helpful; three extra working hours, and an hour more of sleep each night.
Reaching across the floor with her foot, Nia dragged a box of tissues over to her chair and blew her nose without abandon. Sniffling all day had been hell. The television was relaxing; it made Nia calm, her thoughts jelling in her head. Pure relaxation had been hard to come by in the last six months, and she found that things were best when she just stopped thinking. Then, her mind could not torment her. Nia switched channels.
In a made-for-TV movie, some no-talent actress was whining about how her man got her pregnant and left. Nia despised how these dramas made Americans seem like naïve children, always thinking that good things would just happen, like they were brought by the Tooth Fairy or something. On the next station, a political analyst reviewed the budget crisis. Nia blankly wondered if the President bought his evening paper with a few of the cents that she’d ‘donated’ to the government.
A show that was the epitome of the twenty-something melodrama caught her attention, and Nia became engrossed in its plot. A beautiful woman was trying to break it off with a guy who looked like hot, older version of every guy she’d ever had a crush on in high school. From the dialogue, it was obvious that he was devoted to the woman, but still, she read him the ‘just friends’ speech.
Nia felt her heart cleave in her chest. She wanted to shout at the television, Can’t you see that he loves you? Are you crazy? You’ll never find anyone else who loves you the way he does! Don’t let him go! However, the woman on the television couldn’t hear Nia, so the relationship ended and the show gave way to ads for technical schools and hemorrhoid creams.
It was starting again. Nia could feel the desperate rising inside of her. So much, she wanted a man to love her. She knew that she could love, hell, she’d pined away most of eighth grade over a guy to whom the thought of her was disgusting. Nia wanted to retreat to the embrace of someone who would think as much of her as she did of him. To be safe in his arms, knowing that he would hold her forever if he could, was a thing Nia knew she could never have.
All her friends had had boyfriends, some of them had been through several, in fact. With them, it always seemed as though it was a forgone conclusion; something that appeared so right that it almost felt as though it had always been. When Nia spoke with her friends, it was almost like a presence, or manifestation of their boyfriends was standing behind them. She would feel guilty, and sensing the strong core of private intimacy that the two shared, would leave the couples alone when she was with them.
Nia rose, and stifling a bout of coughing, passed through the door into to her modest room, then into the bathroom in the back. She met her reflection in the mirror. Her brown hair and amber brown eyes stood out from her trim face and high cheekbones, and a thin neck led to narrow shoulders and a slim figure.
The drawer was open before she realized that she’d even moved her hand, and the garish lights of the bathroom glinted off the cold steel of the Stanley utility knife. It was smooth, as so many dangerous and liberating things often are. The blade clicked out quickly, at once becoming sturdy in its locked position.
Frighteningly swift, the knife sang through the air and blood welled up in the slash on Nia’s arm. Thrice more it flew, until her skin was cris-crossed. They were clean cuts, straight and level like the lines on a blue-print.
Nia dropped the blade on the sink and returned to the chair. Tears cascaded down her face, but no pain came from her arm. She hugged herself and rocked violently back and forth. From whence comes comfort for those in solitude? A song ran and thundered in the back of her mind, and she knew it was that of her own thoughts.
You’d have someone who loved you if you were good, but you’re not. Men look at you and want to vomit. All the other young women have guys, but you’re not good enough, not thin enough, not beautiful enough. So you can think, so what? So you can play volleyball, big deal! You nearly failed out of high school and your whole class was secretly laughing at you. Your sister got straight A’s, and she was nowhere near as brilliant as you are. You were as fat as three pigs and still are; you’ll never be anything but a miserable failure. You ruined your parents’ lives.
Nia clung to her arm as if the blood running could drain the badness from her. She let her fingertips play over the soft skin of her wrists. Through the pale peach of it flowed the lines of crystal blue veins. It would be so easy to slip the blade through them, and watch the red fluid of life surge onto the bathroom floor until sweet unconsciousness would bear her away to death.
No, Nia was too much of a coward to do that. Pain would come, and perhaps regret. She had no desire to see ‘her life flash before her eyes,’ like on the pathetic TV movies. Rising again, she stole into the bathroom and came out with the other arm heavily striped. It was like an addiction, but it was something she could control, at least. Now Nia was in charge of who hurt her, and when.
There would be scars, that was for sure, but it was deep winter, almost Valentine’s Day, so she could hide the cuts under the sleeves of a normal appearance. Nia wandered into the kitchen and doused the gashes with iodine, kept under the sink for just such occasions. The stinging burn almost made her cry out, but she clamped her mouth shut tight. No sense in taking risks with tetanus or gangrene even though she had boiled her knife months ago.
The cuts made Nia feel strong, like she’d been brave to sustain such injuries. They were like a visible representation of all she’d ever suffered through; proof of the pain inherent in her existence, and for some reason, when she looked at them, an image of a soldier, wounded on the battle-field for the honor of his king, popped into her mind. Now the arms were silent as the slashes wept plasma and fibrin to make scabs over the fissures. The blood stopped flowing a rosy red, but instead clotted to a brown-black.
On the television, a hockey game had started, an the players swarmed gracefully around on the ice. Nia left it on, as she walked back into the bathroom. Shivering with cold, she sagged down in her chair with an old thermometer shoved in her mouth. Five minutes later it told her what she had known, but denied to herself all week. Nothing could be done, money had to be made, and doubtless she’d get better eventually.
At 3:47am she rose and turned off the television. Nia had no memory of what she’d watched for all those hours, but knew that she hadn’t slept. Coughing, she stumbled over to the fridge and discovered a soda, drinking the whole thing in three droughts before dragging herself into her room. Undressing so quickly and silently, it seemed purposeless, Nia stepped into the shower. Acid pain thrummed in her head as she cleaned herself, flinching as the hot water ran into her wounds.
Dried off and feeling clean, Nia began to put on her clothes, but opted instead for a pair of sweat pants and long sleeved T-shirt. She curled up in her soft bed, sighing in pleasure at being able to quiet her fears simply by lying down. The relentless alarm went off at 4:15am, but she yanked it from the wall and threw it across the room.
At 8:30am the phone rang, so Nia staggered up long enough to explain that she wouldn’t be in that day, and coughing heavily, returned to her blissful slumber. Peace came in turning off her mind, so she slept long and deep, ignoring the shooting pain from the gashes. They’d heal, they always healed.
