Ananda
The night was quiet and the sky was dark. Heavy clouds slowly made their way through the atmosphere. I crawled into bed, my stomach full of cake and my head with the wish I made when I blew out the candles. I was slowly drifting off into a peaceful slumber when my phone buzzed.I squinted at the screen: “Jessica calling.”
“Hello?” I whispered. There was heavy breathing on the other end. “Jess, you there?”
“Ananda.” I could tell from her voice that she was crying.
“Jessica, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know what to do, Ananda. There’s blood.” I clutched my phone tighter.
“What do you mean?” I asked, even though I knew exactly what she meant. I just didn’t want to be right.
“I didn’t want to be here anymore.”
“Jessica, where are you?” I said, trying to sound calm.
“Home,” she whispered.
“Ten minutes.” I said.
“Ten minutes,” she repeated, sounding unsure.
I threw off my duvet, slipped on my trainers, and grabbed my bag. It was 1:27 AM. My parents were asleep in bed—I could hear my dad snoring (he’s incredibly loud). I tiptoed down the stairs, pulled on my coat—this was back in January—and slipped out the door.
I closed my eyes and shivered. A storm was coming, I could feel it. I walked as fast as I could to Jessica’s house and was about to knock on her front door when something made me try the doorknob first. The door was unlocked.
The house was dark, but I could see light coming from her room upstairs. I stood outside her bedroom door for a few beats, bracing myself for what I might find inside.
I’ve known Jessica since the beginning, since the time when cartoons were cool and my dad was Superman and her laughter was real. I knew her before school, before Facebook, before social hierarchies, before this kind of pain even seemed possible.
Gingerly, I pressed my hand to the door, and it creaked open. Jessica was sitting on the floor next to her bed, tears streaming down her face, fists clenched at her chest. I knelt down and took her hands in mine. I saw the cuts on her arms and had to look away to stop myself from crying.
“Open your hands,” I said. She was holding a small blade. The idea that this tiny little thing could cause so much damage astonished me. I put it in my bag.
“Its going to be OK,” I said. I stood up, grabbed her hand, and led her to the bathroom, where we washed her arms. I found a tin of anti-infection cream in the cupboard and dabbed that on. I thought about all the times I’d asked Jessica about similar scratches on her arms and been satisfied when she said, “Oh, it was just the cat.” How can I have been so naïve?
Hours later, I snuck back into my house, up the stairs, stopping on the landing. I could still hear the sound of my dad’s snoring. I got into bed and heard thunder, a few drops of rain. The storm had arrived. ♦