Hurting

Francine Barrowman, Jeanette's mother and manager, was a business suit with high heels clicking. Her eyes empty of feeling, black holes into an abyss where Jeanette had never seen feelings for her in those cold depths. Now she was speaking of 'our' career. "Shit, Mother, you mean my career," Jeanette thought, breathing deeply, emptying her mind and quelling her emotions, trying not to care about anything. She shoved this latest load of soul-crushing crap down deep with all the other fouled-up bullshit in her life, becoming nearly as empty as her mother, at least temporarily. Her emptiness protected her through her concert, the rest of the week end, and Monday's orchestra practice where she was introduced to Melody who challenged her position as first chair. After school, Jeanette saw a group of girls her age in the small park near her apartment building. She wanted to have friends, wanted to have conversations, wanted to belong. But her life always got in the way of living. It didn't help that she felt angry all the time, at everyone and everything. When not playing the cello, she was consumed with making sure no one knew how she really felt by filling herself with anger to hide the emptiness and hurt. When she approached the group of girls lounging around the swings, they ignored her. What was she supposed to do-just stand there like some wilted wallflower, a nobody, or just start talking? What if they didn't respond? Should she just politely listen to their drivel? Weren't they going to welcome her and invite her to join them? Maybe they didn't know who she was. She moved closer to a small group of girls chatting by the climbing bars and said, "My name's Jeanette. I'm a famous cello player." They all turned away and ignored her. Hurt and anger boiled up in Jeanette. She stomped her foot, kicking sand at them and screamed, "You low-class, uneducated, wastes of air!" She trudged away as the laughter died away behind her. What was the matter with her? No! She rejected that thought. It was them, always them. She was fine. She had to be fine, but deep down where her life's failures festered and oozed, poisoning her, she knew something was wrong with her. Her mother thought only of herself. She had no friends at school or in the neighborhood. Her cello and the music from the great composers were her only companions, and through her playing, at least they spoke to her. Her life, it's demands and isolation was crushing her and the anger that had filled her and kept her strong was dribbling away, being replaced by emptiness and loneliness. Somebody had to pay. Somebody had to hurt. But despite her bluster, she knew that she was the only one she had the power to actually hurt. She eased open her dresser drawer and dug under her underwear for her razor blade. Just a few cuts, just a little real pain to blunt her mental pain; just a little red blood to color her gray joyless world. She'd be okay by tomorrow to face the world again.