Cutter
by D-chan

Welcome. Please, have a seat. Would you like anything to drink, perhaps some coffee? Water with lemon? Certainly. Allow me to pour you a glass.

You seem uncomfortable, and I do apologize. I realize this is a very unpleasant scenario for you. Have I introduced myself? My name is Cutter. No, not a word. I give my name out of necessity, not politeness. After this I hope—and so should you—we never have to meet again. But I also hope after this encounter, when you see me in your loved ones, maybe you will find the will to swallow your cowardice and feel some compassion.

Harsh? I know. You’ll get over it.

But let’s say for the sake of argument that we’re on semi-friendly terms. I am the mediator between you and your friend. And from how this friend of yours is acting around me, I’d say you have hurt them pretty badly.

Don’t get me wrong. I am a terribly unhealthy habit, and most who turn to me are very well aware of that. People like you—in the general sense of the word—are understandably wary of me and those who associate with me.

But people like you—generally—do not have the slightest idea what your friend is going through. Please, don’t present a counter-argument. I did not mean to say you’re not unaware of the situation. But you are painfully removed from the thoughts and feelings of your precious friend. In fact, you may even be violently pushing away. Such actions are reasonable. You have your own mind and feelings to worry about, after all. It’s hard enough for some of you to have to put on a pair of pants in the morning, much less have the wherewithal to care about someone else.

First of all, do you know why your friend uses me? It’s normally one of two reasons. The more common is they find solace in me. I bring physical pain. I redirect the aching in the center of their chests and put it somewhere else; in the knife-inflicted wound on your friend’s arms, legs, ankles, hips. I leave the location decisions up to the individual preference. It’s our trade: I make the emotional agony go away, and they decide where and how. And just between the two of us, I also go by other names, like Burner or Biter.

A less common, but still valid, reason is that I make your friend feel. I bet you didn’t know that, did you? Some problems run so deep, so desperately hollowing of the soul, that people find they feel absolutely no emotions. On a flicker of a level, buried somewhere with the hiding sensations, they realize this is unhealthy. But I, I make the physical feeling come, so sharp and painful that it almost simulates an emotion like . . . oh, perhaps fear, or relief, or wonder.

And there is a story behind every scar. Let me tell you some truncated versions:

Let’s take Alyssa, to start with. Alyssa is a classic example, the kind you find clichéd in movies and novels. Her parents neglect her most of the time, maybe because of drugs, or maybe simply because they don’t give a damn one way or another about their daughter. When they do have words for her, they’re strong and bruising.

At a young age, Alyssa discovered that physical pain made those emotional bruises seem less important. And, yes, I will admit she hoped for a reaction: anything, from shock to dismay to horror to the less likely but still desired love and concern.

She cut; she used me for three years. And wouldn’t you know neither her mother nor father did a thing to stop her. On the surface, yes. She went to therapy every Thursday afternoon, as soon as classes were let out. But at home all she heard was, “What will the neighbors think if they find out? Do you have any idea what this will do to our family?”

I see your disbelief is strong. That is fine—as I said, Alyssa is an example of a cliché; a stereotype. It’s easy, in today’s society, to look at her and say, “Of course. What else do you expect?” She’s sick in the head. Poor girl. Give her some happy pills and eventually all will be well.

Where are you going? Sit. Here’s a Coke. I have another story. We’ll call this girl Teena.

Teena’s a bit different from Alyssa. Teena had a gentle childhood. Oh, sure, she was picked on and teased about . . . well, you name it. Her hair, her face, her baby fat; God forbid her teenage years come and she breaks out! But she grew out of her awkward stage and by high school was as average as any other girl. Her parents loved her, as did her siblings. Her friends were tried and true.

As Teena grew older, she also grew bolder. She became outspoken. She clicked well with boys, and enjoyed discussing the same things they did: video games, cars, sports, and sex.

Just before Teena turned sixteen, she went to a party. To celebrate, she assumed. Does it matter at that age? The idea is to eat, drink, and be merry. She ate, she certainly drank, and next she knew she was being fondled by a strange older man giving her orders on where to put her mouth. She screams. The party breaks up. So does Teena.

Teena has nightmares, horrid dark dreams of animals, aliens, corrupt priests defiling her as a small child, a corpse, a normal girl helpless in her own home. She relives these dreams and the actual event because there is no OFF switch. She can wash and scrub until her skin is bleeding and raw, but the feel of those ugly hands and body parts in and on her will always be with her.

I help her. Do you see? I take those detestable memories and feelings and flashbacks and give her something to think about in the real world. The pain I give her, in a pretty gift of red ribbons decorating her flesh, makes the event go away for a short while. All I make her think about is the blood.

Why, my friend, you look green. Would you like some ginger ale instead of a Coke? It does wonders in settling an upset stomach.

Now, those are examples of reactions to an environment or situation. I’ve only given you a glimpse into the actual thoughts. I have a recording of Alyssa’s thoughts right here.

I hate them. No. I don’t. I love them. But it hurts . . . family shouldn’t hurt. This isn’t normal.

Am I useless? How can I be? I make good grades. I have a job now; I can help out financially.

No, that’s not it. I’m . . . a burden.

You’re more worried about a reputation than me? I’m your daughter

Look at me! Look at my arms! My calves, my thighs! This is a latticework of scars. See these? They’re new. And these? I’ve had them for two years! Why don’t you notice?

You do notice . . . why don’t you care?

Why the hell am I here?

If I die, I’ll only prove them right. But who else can I turn to? Not now. It’s too late. I’m an artwork of pain. There’s no point in stopping now.

I can see you are not impressed. More clichés, you say? Well, yes. These are extremely common thoughts and feelings. And these are very trapped people. How can they find a healthier way to feel better, when all they really need is love? An acknowledgment that they exist and are cared for.

Well, of course you’re shaking your head. You’ve already vehemently pushed your friend away for reacting as Alyssa did. You are just like her parents—one more person to make her feel unloved; unwanted. Undesirable, because this pain runs years too deep for you to comprehend.

Stay still. You will sit. And you will listen to Teena.

Those hands. Putrid hands. I hear him still, reaching into my shirt to grasp my . . . my breast. “So natural,” he leers. His face is a void in my memory, but I remember the tone. “Lovely big tits.”

“Let me put it in your mouth,” he orders.

That disgusting, vile thing in my mouth. . . .

God, not the dreams. That priest frightens me. Calling me a dirty whore as he rapes my dead body on a sacrificial altar. The cat that pins me down, twice as big as me, and forces himself in . . . oh, God, not this dream. I hear my sister screaming. Is it a joke? No, she’s suffering . . . it’s coming for me! Help! HELP ME!

I’m so tired of fighting. She was right; I deserved what he did to me. I let my guard down too much. I drank. And that man . . . that man the police refused to believe was really someone who assaulted me. . . .

Why are you making me fight? Can’t you see this is destroying me? Let me die! I hate you, all of you who don’t understand! I want you to be raped just so you understand that I can’t make it go away! I can’t make the flashbacks stop—

His hands. All over, making me kiss him, that slippery slimy tongue. . . .

Why do I have to suffer to make you happy? The pain makes the memories stop. Please let this mental torment stop.

Glamorous, isn’t it? She is most certainly sick in the head, and not just because she turns to me for comfort. Do you think she asked for that to happen? Do you really believe when she reacts to these inner thoughts that you are the one suffering, because she seems to refuse to be comforted?

Of course you think this way.

I see now. I see this talk was pointless, because you are only withdrawing. You do not sit and listen, do you? You see something that scares you, makes you unhappy, and you run from it.

Leave Alyssa. Leave Teena. Forget either one of them ever turned to you for comfort before me, because you were there in a deeper, more emotional way.

Why such a hateful glare? I call you a coward, certainly, but you need not worry. I am Cutter. And I will take care of these souls for you.

Have a good day, my friend. It was pleasure doing business with you.