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To be honest, I feel like a bit of a fraud writing this. I know that there are people out there that were affected by this much worse than I was and hurt themselves in more serious ways than myself. What I went through is nothing compared to some other people. It was nothing but still had a huge effect on me. She was hooked worse than me. She showed me her cuts. She leaned on me. She even asked me for first aid advice. It was fucked up and I don’t want to go back to that place again. But I do realise how lucky I am when I hear about people who can’t go out in public without covering up scars on their arms or legs. Thankfully I have no obvious lasting physical reminders of it. There is one scar on my arm that’s still visible only if you look for it. I stopped before I got to that point after the phone call I got asking me how to stop a bad cut bleeding. I think that was what terrified me into quitting. There was no way I wanted it to get that bad that I had to put. I made the bump count. “Cotton?, that’s your name isn’t it?” she whispered as she turned toward me. Unlike Mrs. P, Wendy’s hairline was even with mine and unlike Mrs. P’s dark porch I could make out the large frame and flowing dress of her stand in. She could even see my nod but I stuck to the script and answered, “yes, it’s my nickname.” “Cotton, would you do something for me?” I bent down so the display would not make any noise when it met the floor, “Sure.” “I need a roast from the freezer and I can’t reach it, would you?” I suppressed a laugh. She was really pushing it. Her reach was as long as mine. ‘Where is this freezer?’ I wondered. She led me to the laundry area at the back of the kitchen where I had seen the washer and dryer. There was enough light from the stove clock to make out the appliances. They stood side by side, there were built in cabinets above them. There was no freezer. She opened the top door to the washing machine. “It’s there on the left,” she said,.
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