I'm Okay

“I’m okay.”

That was my response every time Mr. Dirksen called me over to his desk after class, looking over the thick, black brim of his glasses to study me like I was an experiment that belonged in his biology course. Not in a creepy way. More like a concerned, curious way. Typical of a science teacher. Dirksen had always been one of the nicer instructors at this godforsaken high school. One of the few to actually take notice of me.

I watched as his blue eyes briefly dropped down, and mine followed suit, realizing he was looking at my wrist. Quickly, I angled it away and pulled my sweater sleeve over my knuckles.

“Are you sure?” Mr. Dirksen pressed, his eyes rising to meet mine again. “You know you can talk to me if you want.”

“Oh, yeah,” I began with a convincing smile. “I just have a lot to think about with all these big standardized tests coming up.” I paused, still grinning, but I felt the corners of my lips tense ever so slightly. “That, and getting out for summer.”

The man shook his head and sighed. “If it were up to me, I’d throw out all of that standardized curriculum nonsense and start fresh, but I don’t get a say in it, of course.” He chuckled. “Anyway, big plans for summer?”

“Not really,” I murmured, looking away. “Maybe just catching up on some sleep if I can.”

The concerned look returned to Mr. Dirksen’s face. “You know, it doesn’t bother me you fall asleep in class sometimes. You’ve always been good about turning in your assignments.”

“Thanks,” I said with a halfhearted shrug. “I try.” Casting a glance over my shoulder at the classroom exit, I turned to look at Dirksen and started to walk backward, saying, “I’d better head out.” I jerked a thumb toward the door. “My dad’s probably wondering what’s taking so long.”

“Alright,” Dirksen called as I turned around to walk normally across the room. “And, Harper, if you need anything or just feel like chatting over the break, you can shoot me an email. A teacher’s work is never done, you know.”

“Sure,” I said back to him with a grin and a wave and then swerved around the doorframe. My face instantly melted into a tense frown as I stalked down the hall, pulling my sleeve again for good measure. I adjusted the straps of my backpack and then rammed my hands into the push handles, stepping into the lobby. I hadn’t even reached the second door to the outside before seeing through the window a big, obnoxious four-door truck parked by the curb, its lime gold sparkle paint already making me sick to my stomach.

I paused at the second door, drawing a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “You can do this, Harper,” I whispered to myself. “Just...don’t say anything to make him mad…”

Then I pushed through into the hot afternoon sun, heading straight for the truck. I grabbed the handle and pulled the truck door open, slipping inside to close the heavy door behind me.

“About time you got out here,” a man’s voice snarled from the driver’s seat.

I didn’t even look at him, crossing my arms and sinking into my seat to look out the passenger window.

“Well,” he continued in a gruff tone, “what took you so long this time? Were you in there whorin’ around with some numbskull in the boy’s bathroom?”

“No,” I muttered, glaring out the window. Since when do you care, anyway? I finished inside my head, fearing the repercussions of voicing my thoughts aloud.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, girl,” he barked.

I clenched my fist against my arm where he couldn’t see it, but I reluctantly turned to look him in the eyes, to look at the disgruntled, angry face of the man who claimed to be my father. Maybe he was my biological dad, but he had never acted like one.

“What took you so long?” he repeated.

“Mr. Dirksen was just asking me about summer plans or whatever. Just small talk.”

My father glared at me and shook his head before putting the vehicle in gear. “Better be all it was. I don’t want you pulling some stupid stunt like you did in January.” He paused and snorted softly. “You remember how well that one ended for you?”

I could feel my nails digging into my palms. Yeah, I remembered. My bruises hadn’t even healed from the last beating he had given me. After my last attempt to skip town, he caught me and...well, let’s just say I didn’t go to school for an entire week after that, so the swelling had time to go down.

I was quiet the whole trip home, as was usually the case. As soon as we made it to the house, I went straight through the door, down the hall, and into my room, taking care not to close the door too hard. Kneeling at the foot of my bed, I reached underneath and felt around until my fingers touched something. Grabbing it, I pulled a box into view and, for a while, I knelt there, hunched over it, biting my lip to force back a sob. Then I opened the box, shoving the pile of magazines aside to reveal a small, retractable box cutter at the bottom.

At the sight of it, my pained expression faded to something distant, blank, cold. Grabbing the box cutter, I turned to sit cross-legged on the floor and yanked my sleeve up. Further up my arm, past the elbow, finger-shaped grayish purple bruises studded my skin in aberrant patterns. He was always so careful, even in his rage, to make sure to hit me and grab me in places no one could see.

Pushing the switch up, the razor blade popped into view, glinting in the dim light of my bedroom. I didn’t even waste a second guiding it to my already scarred wrist. Just as the blade grazed against the thin, pale skin there, I watched the hairs on my arm suddenly stand on end. A chill ran down my spine. I clenched my teeth. Gripping the razor even harder between my trembling fingers, I tried again, pressing the point down further.

“Harper.”

The voice was otherworldly, soft, haunting. It sounded like it was right in my ears. More chills raced over my body, but I kept my composure.

“Not now,” I growled.

“Harper, please.”

“I said not now,” I repeated. “Leave me alone.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Why? What do you care?”

“Please, don’t,” the voice pleaded softly. “I can help you.”

I pulled the razorblade away, gripping it in my hand as my head dropped in frustration. “Yeah, that worked out real well for me last time,” I said.

“I am sorry,” the disembodied voice responded after a pause. “But you must keep trying.”

“No,” I retorted. “I’m done.”

“Please, Harper.” As the voice spoke, the chill around my body receded, replaced by a warm, tingling sensation. “One more time. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

Slowly, I lifted my head. It felt heavy, the weight of the tears streaming down my face only adding to it. “I’m so tired. I just want it to end.”

“It will end,” the voice promised gently, “only not in the way you imagine. You will succeed. You will be free.”

I leaned my head back to look at the dingy yellow lightbulb in my ceiling, the tears already drying on my cheeks. Taking a deep breath, I released it as a sigh, then closed my eyes. “Alright,” I whispered. “One more time.”

The warmth increased in the room, and I felt a genuine smile tug at the corners of my lips for the first time in a long time. It was an air of relief for both myself and the presence that had taken up space in my room for the last several months.

For so long, I had been fighting only to fall flat. Dealing with the harsh consequences of failure. Being told so many times by those around me I was worthless, garbage, feeling lower than the dirt beneath my feet most days. Then, my guardian angel showed up. I couldn’t say with certainty what this otherworldly voice was or where it came from, but it was my saving grace, the only thing to speak genuine life and love to me for as long I’ve been alive.

This time would be different. This time, I would make it. And, if anyone in the future that I’ve told, over and over and over, that I’m okay, I’m doing fine, I’m alright, don’t worry about it... this time I’m going to tell them... I lied.