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I hadn't worn a touch of makeup in a week. He just shook his head. "You're beautiful as always. Tell me what's going on."I looked at him and took a deep breath. I could tell him anything. So I spilled my guts. After all of that, I had the sudden urge to cut. I hadn't cut in years. It was a habit I'd stopped and wanted to never do again, but the urge came at me strongly. He saw it in my eyes. "What are you thinking?" he asked me. I looked down and then back to him. "I dunno. I just want to cut." No," he said sternly. "I know, I know.." "I mean it, Odd." I know..." I said meekly. My right hand was rubbing my left forearm through my hoodie. He grabbed my hand softly, moving it away, looking me straight in the eyes. "Show me," he whispered. "Show you what?" I said confused. "Show me your scars."My heart stopped. I was not one to flaunt my scars. I tried to keep them as hidden as possible.His hand touched the cuff of my hoodie, and he slowly pushed up the sleeve. I watched him as he. That of course was Tom’s final flaw: he’d stupidly never attempted to publish outside of America. Tom leaned over the stone abutment of a 350-year old bridge in Vermont where tree leaves were turning. A cock of the feathered kind had awoken him pre-dawn and now he rested, attempting to digest the cold cereal mash the lazy bitch of a farmer’s wife had left out for him. Breakfast it was not. She deserved to be shafted by her husband after breakfast, as well as before dawn when the cock crowed. Yawning and thinking he’d better fetch the cows in, the farmhand cum collector of reject slips from book publishers was about to attend to his lowly-paid chores when he noticed a young woman with golden hair floating down the stream, the hem of her white party dress up around her neck and clearly she was without panties. Tom crossed to the other side of the bridge and watched the corpse float headfirst onwards to where? He didn’t know. She’d be the kid of rich parents attending the reform school.
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