“Scar tissue has no character. It’s not like skin. It doesn’t show age or illness or pallor or tan. It has no pores, no hair, no wrinkles. It’s like a slip cover. It shields and disguises what’s beneath. That’s why we grow it; we have something to hide.” - Girl, Interrupted, Sussanne Kaysen
It’s the 6th of July, 2013 and the Sun’s roaring and it’s two p.m. and you already wish you were dead. You look down at her, hair pulled into a red ponytail – you remember because it’s the one you gave her that morning, before the throat-parching hike. The diamonds on her ears catch the adamant sun holing into your Juicy Couture green sweater – you wish to go back into the AC, wish to get away from her, wish to un-hear the words of the stranger on the bicycle – ghadi ne kissi ko mar diya- the car hit someone. Her shirt is ripped down the middle – you cross your hands behind your back to suppress the urge to cover up her pale body; you notice her shoe is missing, you shake your head when you find it flat in the middle of the road, you roll your eyes because how is she supposed to walk back to the hotel after the prank is over?
You try to get the shoe – it lies alone in the puddle of water from her broken bottle, you sigh because wet shoes are disgusting. Someone behind you yells for you not to stop, Mrs. Golaps fingers are tight around your arm, she tells you to go inside, nothing has happened, it’s all okay. You laugh, of course nothing has happened, you say, it’s Rayna, it’s all a prank, just like always. The ripped clothes are a prank, the shoes are a prank, the red stuff trickling down her nose is just a prank, look, look, look, she’s trying not to flutter her eyes, she’s trying not to smile! you laugh. You laugh and laugh and laugh and suddenly you’re in the courtyard of the hotel and your throat is dry and you can’t stop smiling about how good Rayna got everybody this time and you’re rolling your eyes at everyone and then Jushti slaps you because you’re a selfish, heartless bitch and you are supposed to be Rayna’s best friend.
You don’t cry. You don’t cry when you hear the sirens from inside the dining hall; you don’t cry when the teachers tell you she’s okay when she’s lying on the hospital bed in a coma; you don’t cry when your friends force food down your throat; you don’t cry when you throw it all back up; you don’t cry the day of, the day after, the week after, the month after; you don’t cry when everyone makes bracelets to support her; you don’t cry when everyone tries to get out of exams because she can’t take them; you don’t cry when Armaan Hairy Legs asks if she’s okay; you don’t cry when you shrug at him and say you don’t know; you don’t cry when you wait in the hospital because they won’t let you see her – you cry when she gets back home. You’ve been holding your breath for so long, you’ve been clawing onto every last hope and now that you’ve let go, your body is shaking with grief and regret and the wrath of pain. You cry when Malhaar and Khyan and Riddhi see her before you do because you’re her best friend, you should see her first and Jushti was right because you are a selfish bitch. You cry the night you meet her because it’s just so awkward because Khyan’s there and she can’t talk and she can’t flash you her all knowing smile and tell you that ha! she got you again, it was all a part of her master prank and goddamnit you’re her best friend and you can’t think of a thing to say. You cry, shaking in bed and praying that God would save her and promising that if he did, you would believe in him. You cry when you don’t think you can bear seeing her again. You cry when you do see her again. You stop crying soon because you look around you and you see that life goes on. You bury yourself in work, any kind, school, tuitions, writing and writing and writing pages and pages about anything and everything and talking about nothing in particular and Did you know a snail could sleep for three years? You get into a routine, you go to school, you come home, you go to tuitions, you go to Rayna, you help her walk, talk, remember you, you tell her about the road trip where she drooled on Sanya’s lap and heere moti and the intense game of Spoons. She asks about Chaitanya and Armaan and every time she mentions them you tell her that boys are stupid and no one likes them and she should just date girls. She laughs. You go home.
A year passes, maybe two, somehow you don’t see her everyday- school, friends, you can’t afford to lose her again? Your Mom gets transferred; you move away, you should be sad, but you sigh in relief - heartless, see? You promise to text her everyday- you don’t. You promise you’ll call her every week – you call only on her birthday. You promise that you’ll never forget her, and you don’t, but every atom in your body wishes you could. You love her, you do, but you can’t stand not seeing her get better, you can’t stand not being around her, you can’t stand being around her. You regret not texting her once in awhile- regret hits in gushes, taking the wind out of you, your fingers hover over the keyboard, you gulp down any air you can, you type out two letters: Hi, your thumb hovers over SEND, you turn your phone off and look away. Soon, too soon, perhaps, it’s three years since the accident and you’re seventeen and you’re in your junior year and you missed her sweet sixteen and you didn’t even call her on her birthday and so you take a sip of your cold coffee and you sit down to write this on the 6th of July, 2016 and you still wish you were dead and your throat clenches and your fingers quiver and you miss her but you still do not text her, you selfish, heartless b*tch.