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Chapters (36)
  1. Cover
  2. Author biography
  3. Other books by Barbara Hanrahan
  4. Title page
  5. Dedication and Epigraph
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. Six
  12. Seven
  13. Eight
  14. Nine
  15. Ten
  16. Eleven
  17. Twelve
  18. Thirteen
  19. Fourteen
  20. Fifteen
  21. Sixteen
  22. Seventeen
  23. Eighteen
  24. Nineteen
  25. Twenty
  26. Twenty-One
  27. Twenty-Two
  28. Twenty-Three
  29. Twenty-Four
  30. Twenty-Five
  31. Twenty-Six
  32. Twenty-Seven
  33. Twenty-Eight
  34. Twenty-Nine
  35. Thirty
  36. Imprint page

I refused to eat; locked myself away. My grandmother knocked in vain. Food grew colder. I longed to eat, but could not come out. When I did — red-faced, swollen-eyed — it was almost worth it. I felt calm and washed clean, emptied of all triflings of emotion. I was given (my mother said, as she always did, that I would kill her with worry) kisses and bread and butter, and the meal was still hot (warmed up in the oven).

One day I made holes in all my pants; my mother stitched with black cotton that chafed; I felt ashamed each time I walked. One day I swallowed three aspirins; pretended I had taken more (it is lovely to stare at the electric light — it hurts your eyes, makes you look sick — I am a naughty girl — and you go quite cross-eyed); I dusted my face with Reece’s powder, sucked my cheeks, said I die.

I hid in the space between the sleepout and the fence; my grandmother knew I was there, but she did not say; my mother hunted with a strap; when I came out my knees were graved with pebbles. I rubbed dirt on my legs and said I had fallen on gravel — they gave me peanuts. I was in trouble in the sitting-room — the glass swans watched — Carol came in; I hated my mother as she revealed me to my friend.

Finally, from the pages of the True Confessions I was not supposed to read, the films I was not supposed to watch, came inspiration.

The next time I had a fit I locked myself in the bathroom, took the razor my mother did the hairs with under her arms. I undid the top and took out the blade that quivered bluish on my hand. I sat on the edge of the bath (it is cold) and passed the blade across my wrist. I decorated myself with a pretty pattern (something like a rose) of scratches and a little blood. It did not hurt until I put it under the tap (cold, sting, sharp). But I was pleased — my wrist was rather ugly. I showed it to Nan and my mother (say next time I’ll do it deeper). They looked quite worried (ha-ha); I knew I had success. My mother said How wicked; I made my grandma cry.

It is strange to sit in a classroom all neat and nice and know that the scratches are there under a cuff.

Twenty-Seven

TWENTY-SEVEN