I shook my head. He wouldn’t chase me off with nastiness.
“No can do, Clay. You’re going to tell me what you’re hiding and you’re going to do it now.” My tone was hard and I could see it was only making him angrier.
“I’m not hiding anything. Don’t be ridiculous,” he said flippantly, trying to grab his book back. I saw a small movement in the dim light. Looking closer, I could see drops of blood dripping down his right hand.
I gasped. “You’re freaking bleeding! Let me look!” Before he could react, I swung his desk lamp over so I could see and yanked up his shirtsleeve. I was horrified to see a steady stream of blood flowing down his arm.
“It’s nothing, Maggie.” He tried to pull the sleeve back down and I recognized the panic in his voice.
“That is a lot of blood, Clay. I need to see it. You may have to go to the hospital or something.” I undid the buttons on his shirt and pulled it off him, manhandling him in the process.
I couldn’t control my look of horror as I caught sight of the very deep and precise cuts along his right upper arm.
“Oh, my God,” I breathed, grabbing several tissues and blotting the wounds. I went immediately into crisis mode, not pausing to think. I rushed down the hallway to the bathroom, grabbed some gauze, rubbing alcohol, and bandages, and returned to Clay’s room.
He hadn’t moved, as if rooted to the spot. The blood was coming thick now. “Shit, Clay, this looks bad. You might need stitches. I should go get Ruby.” I started to head to the door.
“No, Maggie. Don’t get her, please,” he begged me.
I turned back to him. “You should see a doctor. Seriously.” Clay picked up the gauze and pressed it to the cuts. Then, using the bandages, he covered it and held it in place.
“This will be fine. The blood will stop eventually,” he said, as if from experience. I felt sick to my stomach.
“You did this to yourself, didn’t you?” Clay didn’t say anything; he wouldn’t look at me. I raised my voice. “Answer me, damn it! You did this!”
Clay flinched. “Keep it down, would you?” He moved behind me and closed the door.
“What did you use, Clay?” My voice had gone cold. Clay sighed with resignation. He lifted the lid of the wooden box on his desk and pulled out a razor blade. I could see his blood on it. I shivered with revulsion. I snatched the blade from him, opened the window, and threw it out. I was so mad and upset and scared. How could he do this to himself?
Clay seemed remarkably calm, given that I was the one about to lose it. I stalked back over to him, putting my fingers to the skin of his chest. He hissed a quick breath as I touched the rigid scars crisscrossing his skin. The destruction he had caused himself was painful to look at.
“Why would you do this? I thought you were taking your meds,” I whispered, backing away from him. Clay closed his eyes.
“I still hurt, Mags. All the time. Even with the medication. It’s not a magic fix, you know,” he told me sharply, opening his eyes.
“This is scary, Clay. I don’t know what to do, here.” I was at a complete loss and more than a little hurt, which was really selfish.
I thought he was happy, thatImade him happy. But it was obvious I wasn’t enough to help him. Not by a long shot. And that broke my heart.
“You need help,” I said, feeling extremely tired.
Clay’s answering laugh was a bitter one. “Been there, done that, got the certificate of completion.” Clay roughly put his shirt back on. His fingers shook as he did up the buttons.
“Well, you need to do something. Do Ruby and Lisa know you’re doing this again?” I asked him.
Clay’s face grew dark. “No, and don’t you dare tell them,” he said, the threat clear in his voice.
I drew myself up straight. “Don’t you take that tone with me, Clay. I’m just worried about you. Maybe they need to know.”
Clay just shook his head. “There’s nothing they can do,” he muttered with that aching sadness.
He sounded so helpless. So utterly destroyed. How did I possibly think I could help him? That I could do this on my own? His issues, what he needed, were so beyond what I was capable of providing.
“I can’t do this by myself. I don’t know what to do, or what to say. I can’t help you if you don’t want to help yourself,” I said matter-of-factly.
Clay looked at me for a second, then crossed the room toward me. “That’s where you’re wrong. You save me every single day. You are the one thing that makes me happy. You are the only thing I need.” His words were so passionate and I felt myself being pulled along by his conviction.
“But you’re still cutting,” I argued, fighting the Clay haze that threatened to overshadow my better judgment.
