Kathy by Stacey Doss (list of e readers txt) 📕

I stood in silence, in the shadows, watching her. She was bent over a school book, chin in her hand. I could see the pain etched on her face, the pain she allowed no one to see. I wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her, but I was afraid. I knew she would withdraw from me, recoil as if I had slapped her, or worse. She wouldn’t understand.

Her name is Kathy, and she is sixteen years old. When she was hiding the pain behind her “everything’s normal” mask, she looked her age. But now, when she felt safe enough to drop the mask, she looked thirty. My heart broke as I thought over the reason for her pain, her aloneness.

She slammed the heavy book closed, making me jump. I slipped deeper in the shadows as I watched her rub a single tear from her cheek. She reached across her desk and pulled a pair of scissors from her pen holder. The light from the desk lamp glinted off the blades, flashing on the sharp points as she turned the scissors over and over. She looked at the scissors, then her wrist, as she slowly rolled her hand over, exposing the crisscrossed veins.

I stepped forward, reaching out to her, screaming, “NO!” but no sound came out; my throat was too dry. She opened the scissors and placed the sharp edge of a blade against the soft skin of her inner wrist. Another step and I was almost out of the shadows.

“Kathy? Where are you?”

She jumped, dropping the scissors and whipping her head towards the door. I stepped back into the shadows again, heart pounding, palms sweating, ashamed that I was still afraid to comfort her.

“In my room, Mom,” she called.

“Come down here a minute, please.”

She sighed. “Ok.” She returned the scissors to the holder and replaced the mask, then slipped down the stairs. I stole out the window.

It was after midnight before I was brave enough to go back to Kathy’s room. I found the hidden spare key and let myself in the front door. I tiptoed up the steps, avoiding the creaky third step, and slid through the doorway of her room. Kathy was sprawled across her bed, a foot hanging off the side, her head turned toward me. I slipped around and kneeled by the bed, shifting forward to place my lips close to her ear. The bed squeaked under my weight, and I froze as Kathy shifted. She settled, and I breathed in relief.

She was facing up now, bringing her ear closer to me, almost as if she knew I was there, knew I would speak. I took a breath and whispered, “Kathy, please oh please listen to me. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay, I promise that.”

“How can you be sure?” she mumbled in her sleep.

“I just can. Trust me. Don’t kill yourself. It’s not worth it.”

She groaned and grew restless, so I jumped up and dashed to a dark corner. She tossed around, as if in a fight dream, and I knew my chance to comfort her tonight was over. I slipped down the stairs and pulled the front door to with a gentle click.

***

I watched from the street as Kathy made her way to school. She walked slowly, backpack pulling at her back, an open book in her hand. It always amazed me that she could read and walk at the same time. She was alone; other students were in groups either in front of her or behind, but she walked in her own little world. It was a defense mechanism: look busy, like you don’t want to be disturbed and you won’t be bothered by anyone, including the scoundrels. I followed her, careful to not be seen. I stopped at the corner of the school lot, waiting until she went in the door, then turned and walked away.

It was a long day, waiting for Kathy to get done with school. I hoped she had a good day. I knew she loved school, loved learning, so her actual class time would go well. But she was uncoordinated and slightly overweight, so gym would be a torment. She had never gotten good grades in gym, passing the class only because they gave tests. The only game she was any good at was volleyball, but because her mother was poor, she never got the chance to try out for the team. It was too early in the year for volleyball; I think it was kickball or something equally aggravating.

I sat on her bed, waiting, waiting. I knew this was my last chance to talk to her; I had to leave the next day. I thought about all the things she’d experienced already in her short 16 years, and I cried over the unfairness of it all. But behind the tears was a joy, because I knew she would make it through. She would rise above this, would grow to be a wonderful young lady if she chose to overcome.

It didn’t matter that she wasn’t as pretty or popular as the other girls in school. Beauty is superficial, anyway. Look at me; I have humdrum brown hair, eyes called hazel because they really had no single color, glasses because I am near-sighted, and am considerably overweight. But I learned to be content.

It didn’t matter that she didn’t have the guys drooling over her; most guys her age were just hormones on legs anyway, and couldn’t care less who she was inside. Her only real experiences with guys, so far, were those perverts who manipulated her, touching her in inappropriate places; fatherly types who used their influence for their own gratification. She was better off without men right now, until she had a chance to heal. I did. I healed, and now I’m married to a wonderful man who was not afraid of my emotional scars, but instead was able to help me heal and overcome my fear.

It didn’t matter that she had no father. She was better off – the only father she remembered was more interested in her than her mother. Both she and her mother were much safer without him. Kathy didn’t need a physical dad; she had the ultimate father who longed to reach down and comfort her. In fact, that’s why I was here right now.

I struggled with my thoughts, fears, knowing that I had to speak to her, to convince her to not take her life, to no longer imagine slicing her wrists with scissors or the knife she was washing in the sink. I had to show her that even though life is bad now, it can get better, will get better. I had to somehow reach through her mask, her wall, and help her to see that someone cares for her, knows her, and loves her, loves her the right way.

My heart began to pound as I heard her bound up the steps, and I dashed to her closet. I didn’t want to scare her by sitting on her bed; she would probably scream and bring her mother running, too. I waited, holding my breath, peeking through the crack between the door and the frame as I watched her drop her backpack to the floor, flip on the stereo and throw herself across the bed. I heard the sobs as I saw her body jerk with the power of the tears. It was now or never.

I slid out of the closet and glided to the bed. I gently, oh so gently, stroked her hair. I felt her slightly relax then tense as she wondered who was with her. She flipped off her stomach into a sitting position so fast I didn’t have time to react.

“Shhh,” I soothed as I saw her draw a breath for a scream. “It’s okay. I’m a friend.”

Kathy looked at me in fear with that certain tilt to her head and scrunched up eyes which expressed suspicion as well as wonder. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend. I’m here to tell you that everything will be okay. You will get past this time in your life, and you will overcome all of the crap you’ve been going through.” I spoke with confidence. I was no longer afraid. My time was short; it was not the time to pussyfoot.

“How do you know? What do you know?”

“I know how you feel, the sadness, the loneliness, the feeling that no one cares besides your mom. I know what those men have done to you, said to you. I know how you’ve considered suicide, but are too afraid to hurt your mother to actually act upon it. I know that you can get past this and learn to be happy. I know that God loves you, and sent me to help you.”

She jumped up and ran from me, pressing her back against the door. I could see panic and confusion in her eyes. “WHO ARE YOU?”

“I am you, Kathy. I am you in 23 years.”

And on the stereo we heard,

“Don’t know how it is You looked at me and saw the person that I could be, awakening my heart, breaking through the dark…

” (“Beautiful, Beautiful” by Francesca Battistelli)

Publication Date: 07-14-2011

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