Nic Narrates

“What are these?” he asked as the faintest grey light began to peek through the window panes. It was quiet still, before coffee pots would be filled and church goers would gather. Laying naked, my arm comfortably resting on his chest, he softly traced the pale lines of my forearm with his fingertips. I was exposed. Too exposed.

But I knew this moment would come, knew there was no avoiding it. I told myself not to lie when it did. I owed it to myself, I thought, to be honest about who I am- both strong and weak, good and bad. I made a promise that if a man wanted to know me- to know my body- then he’d know this past as well. If he asked.

With that moment here, I hesitated. Could I do it? I laid there debating, every muscle straining, fighting to pretend it wasn’t. Clearing my throat, and with a lightness I did not feel, I admitted, “They’re scars.” I didn’t believe it would be that easy, though I held my breath.

“Yeah, baby, but how’d you get them?” he persisted.

In the stillness that followed, I heard a hapless bird begin to chirp outside the window, heard his dog paw at the bedroom door to be let out. Inside, my mind was screaming, panicking: what to do, what to say. What would this man think of me if I told him what I’d done? What other questions would it lead to? Would we ever lay so contentedly in bed again?

“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me,” he whispered and tucked me under his chin. He didn’t ask why. He already knew. “Mine go the other way.”

I wanted to look at him then, wanted to see the recognition in his eyes, the awareness of how a person can be brought to the brink. Wanted to feel the  shared knowledge that hurts can heal, but scars take longer, maybe never go away completely. But I didn’t. And he didn’t look at me.

We stayed like that for a long time, silently watching the morning light cast shadows all about us, each remembering what had come before. Detached. Connected. As bared as could be. And we understood one another perfectly.

Filed under: childhood, crash and burn, cutting, depression, in memory, knowing, quiet desperation, singletons, the sex, things people say, wakefulness, work in progress by Nic