Cuts and Bruises

By Kelly O'Flaherty

"I'd imagine my family finding me; would they be surprised? Devastated? Relieved? Would I survive? Would they find me just at the last second, resuscitate me at the vital moment before I could slip away? I could see their angry faces flashing before my eyes, screaming selfish, selfish, selfish, how selfish can you be?" Life has become banal and

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cranthorpe Millner Publishers
• Release date: May 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781803780207

Book preview

Author’s Note

Hi there,

Thank you so much for picking up this book. I set out to write a story with the aim of spreading awareness about mental health, to offer support and understanding to those struggling and to also help their peers to understand what it’s like to live with depression.

The story is largely based on my own experiences. I hope you can find support and understanding in these pages, but please be aware that this book may prove difficult to read at times. So, if you are struggling right now, and choose to read this book (thank you!), please make sure you have someone to talk to; somewhere to go, if it becomes too much.

I’ve included a list of helplines for UK/Ireland at the back of this book if you need someone to talk to.

At its core, this is a story about hope, friendship and love, even though the journey may be dark at times.

Don’t let the demons win.

1.

My heart beat loudly in my chest, reminding me that I was still here, that I was still alive. I tried to focus my attention on the expansion of my lungs, locked safely in the confines of my ribcage. They felt sure to break free at any moment. I dug my nails into my arm, trying to regain control, trying to hold it back. I couldn’t let it take over. Not here, not now.

I glanced down at the marks on my skin as the sounds from the classroom swam in my ear. I looked up and tried to focus on the teacher, tried in vain to make sense of the muffled words in my ears. The words on the page in front of me were blurring together into an illegible mess.

I dug my nails deeper into my arm and pulled one of the scabs away. The pain was enough. My heart slowed, my breathing steadied, and slowly the world came back into focus.

I prepared myself for their judgment, for their glares of contempt, but no one turned in my direction, not even the person sitting beside me. Sometimes I wondered if she was truly just oblivious or purposefully ignoring what she’d affectionately call my drama.

These moments had quickly become all too familiar to me. I felt them coming on like an approaching wave of darkness. I’d see the ripple in the still waters of an otherwise okay day, disturbed by the sudden presence of an invisible force beneath the surface. Then, all too quickly, the wave would wash over me, dragging me further and further down into the depths of the darkness until I was sure I would drown, my stifled cries caught in my throat.

Are you all right? Rachel said as the class finally ended.

Yeah, I’m fine, I answered automatically. I never considered saying anything else. I never considered sharing my thoughts with her either, this girl who had been by my side for years, day in and day out, the girl without whom I couldn’t possibly have withstood school.

The art of making conversation and the ability to start friendships were skills I had surely been born without. My parents would quickly use the excuse, she’s just shy whenever I failed to give a relative an answer longer than two words as they asked me about my life. Soon enough, they learned to stop asking.

Sometimes I’d feel like I couldn’t think at all. Spoken words would hit my ears, but my mind would conjure no response, so I would remain silent.

The fact that I had Rachel as a friend really was a miracle in itself. We had first met just before maths class four years ago as we waited for the teacher to arrive. I had become accustomed to keeping to myself at this point and had learned to ignore my growing envy as I watched others gather around, talking loudly and cheerfully amongst themselves. I’d find myself yearning to be a part of that group, only to jump in fear when one of them glanced over at me. I kept my head low as I scrawled nonsensical things into my sketchbook. I brought it with me almost everywhere; it had become something like another arm for me.

I was certain that Rachel must have taken pity on me as she sat down beside me and started casually talking, seemingly unfazed by my delayed response. The pencil in my hand skittered across the page as I forced myself to look up at her. My heart started to pound in my chest and I tried to think of something to say, anything at all, so I wouldn’t look like a complete idiot. But, I needn’t have worried. It seemed like she could talk enough for the both of us.

She was a plain sort of girl, with big-rimmed glasses that perfectly flattered the shape of her face. She stood a good half-a-foot beneath my towering five foot six inches. Her mousy brown hair hung at the sides of her face, with no real shape or style to it. That didn’t really matter though. What mattered was that she was the first person in the school to offer me any kind of friendship, and the only one determined enough to get through the wall I had built around myself.

Somehow she managed to put up with my silences and awkward answers. Our friendship blossomed quickly as she invited me to sit beside her and her friends at lunch. As the days went on, that group steadily grew. It was almost like she was collecting friends; it was all so effortless for her. Pretty soon, I became accustomed to having her by my side and thought that finally I would have the chance to be a normal teenager, with my own friendship group, sharing jokes and gossip, and going to parties. However, it would seem that the demons whispering in my ear were rarely wrong.

They don’t bite, I promise, she said laughingly one day, noticing my hesitation to sit beside these people who were my classmates yet complete strangers.

I forced myself to sit down beside them, barely saying a word for that entire hour.

***

The sound of a knock on the door woke me far too early.

Samantha, honey, time to wake up, Mum called. I groaned loudly and urged her to leave me alone. Don’t be like that. Time for school! Get up and have some breakfast.

I listened to the sounds of her footsteps as she moved away from my room and out of the house. Mum was always up extra early as she worked in the boys primary school. She always managed to sound quite chipper and full of life, too. The morning affected me a little differently.

I had my own alarm set to wake me later again as I inevitably drifted in and out of sleep. The routine was the same every day. The alarm would sound just before eight a.m. and I’d hit the snooze button one too many times until I really did need to get up. I’d silence the alarm and pull my lead-like legs off the bed.

That October morning, I quickly threw on my uniform, pulling the collar of my blouse up over the neckline of the navy jumper. I picked up my hairbrush and struggled to pull it through the mess of hair on my head. Brown strands fell to the floor, forever combined with the fibres of the carpet. I paused for too long, critiquing my face; the premature bags beneath my eyes, the paleness of skin that rarely sees the sun, a new spot on the side of my nose - features I doubted anyone would describe as pretty. I pulled a bobble out of my dresser drawer and tried tying my hair up with it, but oh God, no; my ears looked far too big for my face. I quickly pulled my hair down again and smoothed it back into place.

I glanced around my room noting, once again, that it needed to be tidied, but I never had the energy to do anything about it. A bundle of clothes lay in the corner, ready to be transported to a washing machine. Scattered notes and pieces of paper were strewn across the floor - hopefully not important ones. I had attempted to cover up the ghastly pink paint on my walls with an array of posters; some of my favourite artworks ranging from Van Gogh’s Impressionism to Georgia O’Keeffe’s unique Abstract paintings. Many of them were faded and torn. I really needed new ones.

Deciding to tidy up tomorrow instead, I grabbed the sketchbook from the desk and stuffed my pencils into my bag. That bundle of papers would often be a saving grace to me on the more boring days (i.e. every day).

I hurried downstairs, running a bit late, as usual. I put some bread into the toaster and went to the fridge to collect the lunchbox that I knew would be there.

Sometimes I felt bad that Mum still felt compelled to make lunches for her sixteen-year-old daughter; she’d insist that she was simply taking care of her baby. Truth be told, I would’ve just grabbed a bunch of snacks instead of bothering to make a sandwich or anything substantial if it wasn’t for her.

The lunchbox had a sticky note on the lid. It read, in very neat handwriting, Don’t be late! Love you xoxo.

I quickly made my way down the path towards school, Tíreen Community College, swallowing the last bit of toast. I passed many other students on my way - none of them in any particular hurry - despite the fact that it was almost five minutes until nine o’clock. Many students were lounging about outside shops; some even attempting to take a not-so-sneaky drag of a cigarette. As I passed, one of the girls, whose blonde hair fell down to her waist, exhaled a great cloud of white. Her friends giggled alongside her.

I pushed myself up the remaining length of the path towards the school, practically running through the courtyard and in through the entrance hall of the school as the clock neared nine.

The school building was nothing remarkable, at least not to me, but then who was I to judge in my youthful ignorance? The long corridors seemed to stretch out for miles yet were so narrow there was barely enough room for two people of average size to walk side by side without constantly bumping into each other.

The walls throughout the school were painted a bland beige; clearly not much thought had been put into choosing it. It was as if they had purposefully chosen a colour to enhance the claustrophobic nature of school life even further. The doors embedded along the length of the walls were painted a dull, pale yellow so they would be easy to miss were it not for the cut-out area featuring a pane of glass allowing passers-by to see into the rooms beyond.

I squeezed my way through the crowds of students littering the corridors and rushed towards the end of the hallway. The sound of dozens of voices talking at once almost drowned out the monotonous tone of the bell sounding over the intercom, yet still the ding-ding-dinging fulfilled its purpose of demanding movement.

I almost tripped over someone who was lazily sitting on the floor with their legs stretched out before them. I uttered a swift apology and was gifted a muted grunt in response.

I finally arrived at my maths classroom just as my classmates were going inside. I spotted the familiar head of hair in front of me, shorter than most others but noticeable nonetheless. As we filed into the classroom, I manoeuvred around everyone to catch up with her.

Morning, sleepyhead, Rachel greeted me.

I stifled a tired yawn. Morning. Sorry ... just couldn’t get out of bed.

Nothing new there, then.

You know that I’d much rather be here, learning all about logarithms and quadratic what-ya-ma-call-its, I said.

It is what it is, Sam, Rachel replied, as we positioned ourselves in our usual seats. Rachel preferred to sit up close to the front of the room to see the board and teacher clearer. It also meant that no taller student would sit in front of her. No one would dare sit in the front row unless they wanted to be mocked forever.

Our classmates continued to chatter amongst themselves as we waited for our teacher to arrive - Mr. McCarthy wasn’t one to hurry.

I could’ve slept an extra ten minutes, I mused, as I watched the minute hand on the clock at the front of the room creep towards the figure two.

I’m sure that would’ve made all the difference.

Every second counts, as they say. I’m gonna have a nap. I laid my head down on my crossed arms but was quickly roused again by Rachel lightly swatting the back of my head.

Get up. I can see him outside, talking to the principal. Just as Rachel finished saying this, the door eased open and Mr. McCarthy shuffled inside. His ageing body made his every movement seem to require complete and utter focus, taking an immense amount of energy. I felt sorry for him as he slumped down into his chair. Maybe he could’ve used those extra ten minutes in bed.

The chatter in the room quickly dulled to a quiet murmur as Mr. McCarthy cleaned his glasses on the edge of his jumper – which surely doesn’t help much. Wouldn’t that just get flecks of fabric all over the lenses? I wondered.

Quiet down now, class has started. You’ve had more than enough time to chat. In contrast to his somewhat frail form, Mr. McCarthy’s voice seemed especially energetic today. We’ll pick up where we left off. I believe it was– We waited in silence as he took a moment to glance through his notes. Ah yes, chapter seven.

As we each opened our books, the sound of the simultaneous turning of pages filled the room. Just as Mr. McCarthy cleared his throat to start the lesson, the door to the classroom creaked open with hesitation.

Late again, Gallagher? Mr. McCarthy said to the head peeking around the door. The student mumbled what I assumed was some sort of apology, but I couldn’t hear him properly, despite being fairly close. I doubted the teacher could either. No time now, you’re late enough. I’ll speak to you later. Get to your seat quickly and quietly. Chapter seven.

Did you see that? Rachel whispered beside me.

See what? I asked as I scratched a doodle into the side of the textbook. I glanced up again to catch him walking back to his seat with his head hung low. He sat down in a row at the back of the class. His friend beside him gently patted him on the back in greeting.

The huge bruise on his face, Rachel pointed out, baffled that I didn’t notice.

I suppose I hadn’t paid much attention to his face. I decided to try to steal a glance now, out of curiosity, and quickly looked back over at him. A sizable bruise was clearly visible across his left cheek. The purple hue stood out against his pale skin and I wondered how I had missed it. He tried - and greatly failed - to smooth his longish dark hair over his face to conceal it. I turned away just before he caught me looking.

Ouch, I commented under my breath to Rachel, Wonder who he pissed off. Rachel chuckled, hiding her grin behind her hands as Mr. McCarthy shot us a look that immediately silenced us.

Nine times out of ten, Michael Gallagher would show up late for the first class of the day. He always seemed genuinely apologetic, but after a while, the teachers stopped asking for excuses. I wondered what it was this time. I had the feeling he wasn’t just a lazy teenager, there was more to it than that.

Forty minutes later, the bell rang to announce the end of class. I noticed that Michael stayed behind after the last of us had left. I couldn’t help but be curious ...

2.

My fifth year in secondary school was in full swing. The number of notches on my calendar grew with each passing day; another day, one step closer to the end. Someday, I’d no longer have to walk through those same doors and walk down those same corridors as I had done day after day after day. Someday everything would change and I’d be set free.

So much of my life had been consumed by school and all the triviality that comes with it. It’s true when they say that school life can be likened to prison life - the routine schedule with a tolling bell that threatens expulsion at every sound, the glare of passing eyes as they attempt to bore into your mind and reveal your deepest and darkest secrets, the stale air inadequate for the amount of lungs it has to satiate and the eyes in the walls that watch your every move, waiting eagerly for a moment in which to make your existence unbearable.

As the walls pressed in upon me, I became increasingly aware of myself and the amount of room I occupied. Shrink, you’re taking up too much space. Get out of the way, move, run.

The air grew heavy in my lungs as I attempted to steady myself. Every day I walked down the same corridors, clutching my sketchbook to my chest as if it could act as body armour. I felt the weight of others’ stares upon me. What were they looking at? I repositioned the earbuds in my ears and tried to focus solely on the music and drown everything else out.

Rachel was the opposite. She walked down each corridor with a smile spread across her face, unfazed by the eyes that fell upon her. She seemed to be friends with almost everyone, proffering hellos as easily as breathing. She was impenetrable, a staple of happiness, strong willed and impossible to tear down. She was happy to be here, happy to be alive; just happy.

It’s nearly the end, you know, she said to me one afternoon during lunch.

The end? The year just started, I replied. It was only just early October. We had barely gotten into the depth of our studies. Word of the dreaded Leaving Certificate had barely been uttered.

No, that’s not what I meant. I meant it’s almost over. Two more years and we’re out! Scary.

I feel like it’s been an eternity here.

Just a little bit more ... She smiled wistfully. Know what you wanna do yet?

I dunno ... college?

Oh, of course. You’re going to art college. Crawford or something. No buts about it. She said, matter-of-factly, as if it had already been decided.

Crawford? No way, I laughed.

Why not?

There’s no way I’d be able to get in there. Have you seen the stuff they do? It’s insane! I said to her as images of incredible art flashed before my mind’s eye. I had visited the students’ exhibition on a number of occasions over the past year. I could still see those doors standing enormously tall in front of me, analysing whether I belonged there. The walls were covered in a variety of works and installations, some beyond my wildest dreams.

I saw expressions of movement and emotion littered upon each canvas, pulling me in. I witnessed explosions of colour and vitality and felt overwhelmed by the sheer presence of genius and talent. I felt small and insignificant among them.

"I’ve seen what you do. You just don’t know how good you are. You’re applying because I said so." I couldn’t help but smile in response to Rachel’s words of encouragement. She would scold me anytime I uttered words of self-doubt and catch me whenever I consumed myself with hesitation and worry. I allowed myself to put faith in her words, holding them tightly as time went on.

I flicked through my sketchbook; it was almost full. I’d have to get a new one soon. Most of the pages had become filled with nonsensical doodles drawn to simply pass the time, simply to keep myself awake and focused during another long and drawn-out session in the classroom. Mixed in amongst these ramblings of the mind were creations bursting from my imagination, expressions, feelings and thoughts from my soul.

I’d often take out my pencil and sketch the people around me, noting their posture, their expression and their very being. I’d take care that they didn’t notice me studying them; I imagined that they wouldn’t take kindly to my persistent glances. The pages quickly filled up with drawings of gestures and expressions, details of hands and eyes, as well as full portraits.

The eyes, in particular, were always fascinating to me. The eyes were powerful – the windows to the soul – where all secrets were revealed. The eyes could never lie. If you looked hard enough and focused deeply enough on them, you could see through anyone.

As I drew, I’d find myself pulled away into another world and for a blissful moment I’d be in control. I could control everything that happened there on the page. I could change anything that I didn’t like and make it mine. I could say what I wanted through the stroke of a line and the pull of a brush. I could express my pent-up frustration and show the world who I really was.

However, these drawings were just for me. I could never show these doodles and scribbles to someone else, to someone important. Rachel praised them whenever she saw them over my shoulder, but she was my best friend so she had to support me. My parents would say the same; they would tell me to chase my dream until the very end. Could I actually be good enough to get into a prodigious art school? Could I really do this as a career and make a living from it? I wasn’t so sure.

3.

Crimson, vermillion, ruby, scarlet. The word red wasn’t enough to describe the colour of the blood as it broke free from my skin. I sat transfixed on my bed and watched as the droplets formed and flowed slowly across my arm. I felt no inclination to stop it.

I could barely explain how it all happened; why I let it happen in the first place, that night three years ago, and why I continued to let it happen. None of it made any sense. It felt like I was falling - falling and falling with no sign of stopping. I tried to reach out to grab the precipice of the cliff that had disappeared beneath me. I tried to force air out of my lungs to call for help but only made myself breathless. I tried to push against the forces that were pulling me further and further down into the endless darkness, but I remained helpless.

I could see the question formed on everyone’s lips: why? I had nothing to complain about; no great trauma, no horrible abuse. I didn’t have the right to complain. I had learned to keep my mouth shut. It was better, after all, to say nothing rather than be ridiculed or resented.

So, I continued to fall. I stopped trying, my limbs weary from the effort of it. I stopped screaming and shouting, and my voice grew silent as my falling turned to floating that seemingly would never end.

The steady rhythm of school-homework-sleep continued in a ceaseless cycle. I found some comfort in drawing as a means of escape, my sole means of expression.

Eventually though, that too began to grow stale. I held the pencil in my hand, turning it slowly in the pencil sharpener, urging for a perfect shape. I gazed