Jimmy noticed the scratches.
It was wonderful and terrible, being seen. For the most part, I’ve been going with the “hiding in plain sight” method. Last Tuesday… I think it was Tuesday, might have been Monday… Anyhoo, earlier last week, I cut. Long story. Sort of. But for the most part, people haven’t said anything. I’ve just left the scars out there for people to see – and so people have just assumed that it’s one of those oops-from-everyday-life incidences. I’m not hiding it, after all, so why would it be something worrisome? And while I know that I can’t know for sure that the thought that I might have started cutting again didn’t cross people’s minds, I haven’t seen that tell-tale look in their eyes. There were none of the glances, none of the momentary furrowed eyebrows or prolonged gazes that would tell me that their minds had processed something more in what was on my arm. But Jimmy – he got that look right away. The taken-aback quiet that settles for just one moment on his being. The recognition. I saw it. I saw him seeing me.
Later he asked me about them. Just an unassuming, “hey Miceala, where’d you get the scratches?” And then when I answered with that half-pretend-guilty-more-than-half-evasive non-answering look, he just rubbed me on the back and told me he’s there if I want to talk. Jimmy is wonderful.
It was wonderful and terrible, being seen. And highly unexpected.