My sister, Emily, drags herself into the room. Her sleeves are over her fingers, hiding the scars that I know are buried deep within her wrist. I watch in fascination as she walks to the tv, turning it off. She turns to face me, eyes locked on my feet.
"Can I sit?" She timidly asks.
I attempt to conceal my surprise. " Yeah, of course you can," I say as I slide over, letting her sit beside me. "Are you okay?"
She begins to nod her head, but then stops herself, shaking her head instead. " Not really," she murmurs, smiling sadly.
I stare at her, surprised by her honesty.
Recently, Emily was diagnosed with clinical depression after trying to take her life a few months ago. since then, she has yet to say a word to me, until today. Is this her opening up to me?
"Well," I begin, unsure what to say. "What's wrong?"
"I don't want this anymore Marcus," she whispers. "I am terrified of- of this, and I need your help"
"What are you afraid of?"
"Myself," she pulls up her sleeve on her right arm, and I gasp. all the way up and down her arm are cuts, big ones and small ones. they are bright red and still welted, as if they are fresh.
"Emily," I murmur, gently taking her arm into my hands. I gingerly touch one, and she flinches.
"I-I- I didn't mean to Marcus. I didn't want to. I saw the razor on the edge of the bathtub and- and-" she begins to sob.
I pull her into my arms, holding her tight. The cuts scare the hell out of me, but I know they are scaring her more. I can't think about myself right now. i must think about her, and only her.
"Em, you can't do this. It's not safe baby."
She holds me tight, not saying a word. I finnaly understand her. I see all the pain, love and hope buried deep within her, shoved in the deepest crevices of her heart. She wants to get better. The air around us is silent, but not awkward. Emily is holding me, trusting me.
That's the loudest thing I will ever hear.