“Other times, I look at my scars and see something else: a girl who was trying to cope with something horrible that she should never have had to live through at all. My scars show pain and suffering, but they also show my will to survive. They're part of my history that'll always be there.”Cheryl Rainfield-Scars.
Warning: Triggering.
My crime was trying to kill myself. I hide my scars every day because I’m tired of explaining why I created them. But they weren’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault that life dealt me a bad hand. She saw it by mistake, a slip in my sleeves and my mother-in-law’s eyes went asunder. I could see the curiosity in her eyes. Then immediately, she lurched into a million questions. The first hit me like a stone on an adulterer’s skull. “Are you suicidal?” I paused for a few seconds, unsure what to answer, whether to tell the truth or seek refuge in the lie, but these marks were distinct. So I opted for the fact that I heard my tongue roll out, “no ma”, then she heaved a deep sigh. But that was the truth. I was no longer suicidal since I met her son. He was the only one who knew my secrets and had seen me naked. He stood by me and promised to keep my secrets. He did. But here I am, revealing it all. Now I’m being judged for trying to stop being miserable. “But what are those marks on your hands? They’re cut marks,” she exclaimed. My response was almost bland, “Yes, they’re, but that was in the past.” But I knew this too often. The past would always come to hunt me. I learned how this conversation would end. Once people saw my scars, they slammed the gavel and convicted me of a crime that wasn’t even my fault. I should’ve been used to it by now, but I still wondered why.
The first day I cut myself, it was to escape from the noises in my head. These noises had tortured me for a long time. I tried everything, but they never stopped. I was alive yet in ruins. No one could explain why I heard those voices. Others said it was spiritual, so I went for exorcisms which never became fruitful. I tried too hard, drowning myself in drugs and alcohol. A short but effective fix, but the voices were powerful. Soon they overcame the drugs, and sooner they overcame the alcohol. It was an anguishing moment for me. So one day, I went into the bathroom, fully clothed, armed with a razor and drew a beeline on my hands. The blood that gushed out was warm.
I could feel the splash on my feet. Soon, I got drowsy and sat under the shower. There was silence. For the first time in a very long time, there was silence. Miraculously the voices had vanished. Till I woke up in the hospital, my hands bandaged, chained to the bed frame and my tongue sour. My parents stared at me in disgust. I knew I had been caught doing the inevitable. It never made sense to me why I couldn’t opt out of the world since I came in without my permission. Why must my leaving the earth be seen as a sin when I had complete control over myself. The next few months in the hospital were torture. I wished I had been successful.
But I made a promise to do it again. This time I sought after my freedom. I pretended to be happy and filled with life. This convinced my parents to agree with me to move out and stay by myself. So I did it again and again and again. The voices in my head were amazed at my obsession with ending it all. But I was determined to make them stop. I sought orgasm by cutting myself. Even when there wasn’t space left in my lower arms, I moved further up. The razors were my friends. I knew different types according to their blade textures. I also began experimenting with cutting various parts of my body. I craved being alone because that’s when I was safe and free to cut. I never exposed my body in front of people because I was ashamed of what it had become—a carcass filled with scars. But I was addicted to what brought me pain to eliminate what drove me crazy. I was getting crazier, but it was a price to pay to stop those voices.
Then I met him. He made me mirror life from a different angle. He was the first person that wasn’t scared of my scars. In all sincerity, I enjoyed showing boys my scars because I knew it scared them. Many called me a witch, evil or insane. But I didn’t care. It chased them off. One time, a group of boys wanted to force themselves on me. My scars saved me. They ran off. No man could get an erection at the sight of my scars. But he did, which fascinated me. He would run his hand all around the scars and kiss them as if looking for permission, and then my body will open up to him. He’d have me, and we’d both want more. I was sceptical at first when he told us we should get married. I was happy with him and didn’t want to lose him, but I knew others wouldn’t understand when they saw my scars. But he told me not to worry, I was his focus, and the opinions of others were blurred. I believed him.
His mother sat with discomfort. She tells me to my face that I wasn’t decent, and she hoped her son had been more thoughtful to bring home a decent girl. A girl worthy of him and capable of being an excellent mother to her grandchildren. I didn’t cry or feel sad. I had expected this sort of reaction. There were no words she said that my mother hadn’t told me. His mother stood up, gave me a long deep look and walked out. I sat transfixed for a short while. But gathered myself together and left. I was glad he hadn’t followed me, he insisted, but I told him I would be okay with meeting his mother alone. I wanted to spare him the embarrassment. I was glad I did. I got home, and he was waiting. He looked sad, which broke my heart. I knew his mother had called. He sat me down and asked if I was okay and told me all that his mother had said to him. She didn’t spare any words, but I wasn’t concerned by her words; I was worried by his reply to those words. That night my body opened up to him again and again.
A loud bang on the door jolted us both awake. I opened it, and there she was, his mother. She shoved me aside and went straight into the bedroom. They started an argument, and I was immediately sure of his response. She told him that I didn’t deserve him because he was decent and I wasn’t. And he told her, “what if she’s the one I deserve. I don’t want a decent girl. I want a human girl.” With that, I knew the coffin had been sealed shut. In anger, she stormed out of the bedroom, and he followed. She went to me and asked me how I bewitched him. I didn’t know what to reply. I didn’t. Tears began dropping from my eyes as I packed my bags. I knew I had to leave for his sake. He begged and promised me he wouldn’t leave me. He did all this in the presence of his mother and to her dismay. He went from pleading to anger, telling me how I was giving upon us. This broke my heart. I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to come between him and his mother. I was done packing, I saw him crumble, and his mother was delighted. I couldn’t bear the strength of looking at the man I loved so dearly crumble under the weight of our love, but I was determined to make him happy. So I left. I went far away.
These new beginnings started with the news that I was pregnant. I wanted to call him and tell him, but the information would make us inseparable. I didn’t want that, so I kept it a secret. I enjoyed carrying our child. Even when the doctors told me that giving birth to him may cost me my life, I insisted. I had given up on the father because of society, but I wasn’t ready to give up on our child. The world might take love and happiness from me but not my child. So when the time came for me to give birth to the child, I knew my time had come. I made my peace and hoped for the best. Even in the labour room, when the complications began, I told the doctor and signed an undertaking to save the child and let me go. I hoped that happened.
P.S: This story is purely fiction and does not represent anyone dead or alive. And any similarity is purely coincidental. The author does not bear any responsibility for how any reader wishes to interpret the story.
Epilogue.
He was petrified when he received a baby at his doorstep. The child came with the note: I didn’t give up on us. I’ll always be with both of you—even in death. Thank you for choosing us. I hope our child lives a peaceful and judgement-free life. He was in tears. The child was beautiful, just like the mother. Then he took a second look and saw a scar on the child’s wrist. Then he wiped his tears and knew that she was present with them.
The End.
Your stories, they're always beautiful 👌🏿.
This is really beautiful. A very lovely piece. Nice one, Tolu. A really nice one🙌