Mom: Sorry, Bran. Photoshoot is going longer than I thought.
That text came in just a few minutes after I sent her the text. I smirked and shook my head. I started to text her to tell her about the meet, but then I ended up deleting it. She didn’t fucking care anyhow.
“It’s probably taking longer because you’re playing on your fucking phone,” I murmured before throwing the phone in my gym bag.
As I left the field, a bunch of girls were waiting to talk to me. It helped my ego a little to talk to the girls and show them my ribbon. They all wanted to take a pic with me holding the first-place ribbon. After posing for several pictures, the girls said they’d use my hashtag so I could see them later.
When I pulled up to our house, none of the lights were on. My mom’s car wasn’t in the garage either. I grabbed a bottle of water, an apple, and a Lunchable and took it upstairs with me. As I headed up the stairs with my arms full, I heard my cell phone alert me of an incoming text. Once in my room, I dropped my food on my desk and retrieved my phone from my gym bag to check the text.
Unknown Number: I hope your track meet went well. Looking forward to hearing about it on Wednesday.
I stared at the text. Kind of pitiful when the shrink’s words were more uplifting and meaningful than my own mom’s. I set my phone down and started to peel myself out of my damp track clothes. From my dresser, I pulled out some navy joggers and grabbed a t-shirt, then tossed them on my bathroom counter before I started the shower. Thinking about the text from the doctor actually made me even angrier about everything with my mom.
I went back to my bedroom and pulled out my first-place ribbon and set it on my desk by my dinner. Grabbing my phone, I snapped a pic of the ribbon sitting between my apple and Lunchable and posted it to my Instagram account. I captioned it with “Dinner of champions,” and added #BrandonCCooper, then dropped the phone on the desk and went to my bathroom.
From under the counter, I grabbed my can of shave gel that held my blades. I twisted the bottom off, picked out a fresh one, and got into the shower. Before I got to the good stuff, I quickly washed off all the sweat from the track meet. The tile of the shower felt cool on my skin as I sat on the floor. I tucked my right foot under my left thigh and picked up the blade while I examined where on my right thigh to mark. When I decided on the spot, I lightly pressed the blade against the skin, pinched the metal between my thumb and forefinger tightly, and then swiftly jerked my hand away from my leg.
“Fuck,” I hissed.
Quickly, I leaned my head back against the shower wall as the adrenaline spread like wildfire through my system. This one hurt more than usual, though. I hadn’t looked yet, but I could tell that it was a lot deeper and maybe longer too. My pulse felt like it had after I ran tonight, but soon it settled as the calming effect from the cut began to take over. Once my pulse seemed under control, I looked down at what I had done.
“Shit,” I swore as I noticed this cut was probably about five to six inches in length. Blood still seeped from it and ran down my leg, racing toward the drain. Carefully, I pressed down on some skin near the cut, causing more blood to surface and then run down the inside of my thigh.
As my short-lived high faded, I grabbed the bar of soap and cleaned the wound. My new cut still bled even by the time I got out of the shower, and I had to use multiple bandages on it. The depression and self-pity were in full swing while I got dressed. I grabbed my phone and the shitty dinner from my desk and then plopped down in my lounge chair that I watched TV and played video games on.
My hashtag had already been used in several pics from the track meet, and I mindlessly went through and liked them. The dinner post with my first-place ribbon had already amassed over 300 likes while I was in the shower. Most people congratulated me and the other team members for the come from behind win. Some people commented about my shitty dinner, but it was all in good fun.
After I returned a few texts from acquaintances from school, I realized how pathetic I was. So many “friends,” but not a single friend. I sighed as I tossed a cracker with ham and American cheese into my mouth and opened up my text strings. I didn’t feel like talking to any of them, but I was lonely. I opened up the text from the shrink and saved his number as “Elijah Hamilton.” I stared at his text for a few minutes before I typed a reply. He was decent enough to text me. I had yet to hear from my mom aside from her telling me her photoshoot was going long, but that was hours ago.
Brandon: Thank you!
I hit send and then I opened the picture of my ribbon and dinner. After I cropped out the pitiful dinner, I sent the picture to him.
Elijah: Congratulations on first place, Brandon. I saw the post on your Instagram account. You must be very proud.
He saw my post? Damn. That guy must be bored out of his fucking mind. Friday night in the L.A. area, and he was checking out my Instagram account. Though, look at my night.
Brandon: I am proud. Thanks for checking out my Instagram page.
I realized after I sent it that the message probably sounded like a routine reply to some commenting about my Instagram pics. I shouldn’t have been a dick. Right now he was the only one who seemed like he cared. Even if he didn’t, he seemed like he did. And that felt good at the moment until I saw his next text.
Elijah: What did your mom say?
Brandon: I don’t know. She never showed up. I sent her a text before the race started and she replied that her photoshoot was taking longer than she thought it was going to.
It probably wasn’t what he was expecting to hear, but it was the truth. While I finished my Lunchable, I hoped he’d reply. When I shifted in my chair, it felt like I pulled one of the bandages off, and I got up to check. I pushed my pants down and saw that the three bandages were soaked, and blood was smeared all over my leg.
“Fuck,” I said under my breath.
I stepped out of the soiled joggers and kicked them to the side. From under the counter I grabbed the alcohol and poured some on a wad of toilet paper. After I peeled off the drenched bandages, I pressed the alcohol toilet paper over the gash.
“Mmm, fuck,” I groaned.
When the initial pain subsided, the throbbing ache that followed felt good. It was weird how if I could push past the first few moments of something painful that it turned into a warm, good feeling. I flushed the bloody toilet paper, put on fresh bandages, and then a clean pair of pajama pants. By the time I sat back down, I felt weird. I didn’t think it was related to the cut, but just in case, I decided to not cut for a few days at least.
Elijah: I’m sorry to hear that she wasn’t able to attend the track meet this evening. I bet when she gets home she will want to hear about it.
Brandon: She has yet to show up at one of my track meets. She didn’t come to any during my freshman year, and none this year so far. It sucks because all these other kids have not just one parent, but usually, both parents are there. Siblings go to these things too. Everyone has people.
