warm blade out of my pocket and into my hand almost before I have the door locked. I tear off the bandage and slash until I can’t hear his voice any more, until I can’t see his hands. I slash until the fear leaves me.
Then I clean up the blood and wrap my arm tightly, pulling my sleeve back down over my tender arm. When I walk back in, the whole room looks different—bigger, brighter, not so full of pain. I settle in next to Meghan and turn my paper over.
My head is clear again. The shadows are gone. I pick up the crayons and draw another picture, one that I know won’t show too much—and the drawing spills out of me like I was meant to draw it. It shows two girls holding hands, smiling up at the clear blue sky. All around their bare feet are shards of glass, but the girls are safe where they stand.
Meghan reaches out beneath the table and rests her hand on my thigh. Her hand is warm and heavy, and I feel myself come back into my body, to the dull, throbbing pain in my arm, to the feeling of her hand on my jeans. Her hand feels good. Safe. Even comforting. I don’t want her to move it away.
“You all right?” she whispers.
I nod. I can’t tell her, but I’m better than I was before. I know how to stop the shadows now; how to keep them from coming into my art. I know how to keep myself safe. All I have to do is cut. Cut until it all bleeds away.
12
Julie stands, then says, “Sometimes art therapy can bring up a lot of emotion, so I’d like you all to be gentle with yourselves over the coming week. This was a good session, people; you should be proud of yourselves. I’ll see you all again next Thursday; I know you’ll be looking forward to it.”
“She’s a regular comedian, that one,” Meghan mutters.
I laugh. I can
laugh
again.
Meghan and I roll up our art, fastening elastic bands around the sheets. We walk out of the room together, carrying the rolls of paper like sabers.
“You really saved my ass back there,” Meghan says. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I made such a scene.”
“You kidding?” Meghan grins. “You took the heat right off
me
!” Her face grows serious. “You’ve been through some rough shit, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. Kinda.”
“You mind my asking what?”
I take a deep breath. With anyone else, I wouldn’t gothere, but I trust Meghan. I like her. “Sexual abuse. When I was a kid. Started when I was two, maybe younger. I don’t know when it stopped. I don’t even remember who did it. Guess I don’t want to.”
Meghan whistles. “That’s rough. Must be really hard sometimes, huh?”
“Yeah.” My arm aches fiercely.
We walk quietly for a few minutes, our feet moving in rhythm.
Meghan glances at me. “Nobody gets what it’s like. Not unless they’ve been there.” “Sometimes I think it’s screwed my whole life up, you know? I mean, I don’t know what I would’ve been like if my mom never beat on me, but I think I’d probably be different. Not so messed up.”
“Me, too!” I can’t believe how much she understands. How alike we are.
We reach the exit. I wish we didn’t have to say good-bye, but I don’t want to push myself on her.
“Hey, you feel like getting something to eat?” Meghan asks.
I shove open the door, feel the sun on my face, smile so wide my mouth hurts. “Yeah! And I know just the place.”
The Java Cup.
I think it’s a great idea until we get there—and then I start to curl up inside myself, retreating from my own skin. But I push open the door anyway and lead the way in. The delicious scents of chocolate and coffee wrap around me, and the haunting sound of pan flutes floats above the murmur of conversation, the sound so clear it’s almost as if the musicians are in here with us.
I see my paintings almost before I see anything else;they’ve been matted and framed and have little white cards on the walls beneath them. They look so professional. I raise my head.
That’s my art on the walls! My art that people are
Then I clean up the blood and wrap my arm tightly, pulling my sleeve back down over my tender arm. When I walk back in, the whole room looks different—bigger, brighter, not so full of pain. I settle in next to Meghan and turn my paper over.
My head is clear again. The shadows are gone. I pick up the crayons and draw another picture, one that I know won’t show too much—and the drawing spills out of me like I was meant to draw it. It shows two girls holding hands, smiling up at the clear blue sky. All around their bare feet are shards of glass, but the girls are safe where they stand.
Meghan reaches out beneath the table and rests her hand on my thigh. Her hand is warm and heavy, and I feel myself come back into my body, to the dull, throbbing pain in my arm, to the feeling of her hand on my jeans. Her hand feels good. Safe. Even comforting. I don’t want her to move it away.
“You all right?” she whispers.
I nod. I can’t tell her, but I’m better than I was before. I know how to stop the shadows now; how to keep them from coming into my art. I know how to keep myself safe. All I have to do is cut. Cut until it all bleeds away.
12
Julie stands, then says, “Sometimes art therapy can bring up a lot of emotion, so I’d like you all to be gentle with yourselves over the coming week. This was a good session, people; you should be proud of yourselves. I’ll see you all again next Thursday; I know you’ll be looking forward to it.”
“She’s a regular comedian, that one,” Meghan mutters.
I laugh. I can
laugh
again.
Meghan and I roll up our art, fastening elastic bands around the sheets. We walk out of the room together, carrying the rolls of paper like sabers.
“You really saved my ass back there,” Meghan says. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I made such a scene.”
“You kidding?” Meghan grins. “You took the heat right off
me
!” Her face grows serious. “You’ve been through some rough shit, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. Kinda.”
“You mind my asking what?”
I take a deep breath. With anyone else, I wouldn’t gothere, but I trust Meghan. I like her. “Sexual abuse. When I was a kid. Started when I was two, maybe younger. I don’t know when it stopped. I don’t even remember who did it. Guess I don’t want to.”
Meghan whistles. “That’s rough. Must be really hard sometimes, huh?”
“Yeah.” My arm aches fiercely.
We walk quietly for a few minutes, our feet moving in rhythm.
Meghan glances at me. “Nobody gets what it’s like. Not unless they’ve been there.” “Sometimes I think it’s screwed my whole life up, you know? I mean, I don’t know what I would’ve been like if my mom never beat on me, but I think I’d probably be different. Not so messed up.”
“Me, too!” I can’t believe how much she understands. How alike we are.
We reach the exit. I wish we didn’t have to say good-bye, but I don’t want to push myself on her.
“Hey, you feel like getting something to eat?” Meghan asks.
I shove open the door, feel the sun on my face, smile so wide my mouth hurts. “Yeah! And I know just the place.”
The Java Cup.
I think it’s a great idea until we get there—and then I start to curl up inside myself, retreating from my own skin. But I push open the door anyway and lead the way in. The delicious scents of chocolate and coffee wrap around me, and the haunting sound of pan flutes floats above the murmur of conversation, the sound so clear it’s almost as if the musicians are in here with us.
I see my paintings almost before I see anything else;they’ve been matted and framed and have little white cards on the walls beneath them. They look so professional. I raise my head.
That’s my art on the walls! My art that people are
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