Charms - Broken Hematite Ring

Circa 1999

I stood on cracked pavement and watched my mother as she drove away in tears. She had seen the marks on my arm, thin red lines like early roman numerals counting spaces between misery. They were too uniform, too evenly spaced. It was obvious what I had done.

Her partner noticed, too.

The green mile from the front door to the kitchen offered no opportunity for resistance. She dragged me to the sink by my arm, crooked little claws digging into my skin. The kitchen stank of mildew and rancid meat. Two weeks of crusted dishes overfilled the sink and scattered the countertops between open cans of moldy food. I tripped over one of the empty soda bottles scattered on the floor, but she shambled forward undeterred. It seemed strange that someone so much smaller than I could command such obedience, but her intimidation exceeded her stature by miles.

The back of my hand slammed against the filthy granite as she pinned it to the counter. My hematite ring snapped on impact. I had many of them over the years, anyone who's owned one knows they come with a short shelf life. But this one was special. My best friend had given it to me before I moved to Arlington. Before I found myself here.

Dead dark eyes drew in mine, wide black centers resisting the light from the window. She snatched a serrated knife from the pile of dirty dishes.

"If you want to kill yourself, you cut THIS way" Her voice hissed and slurred, venomous spittle pissed from her lips. The knife peeled away bits of flesh as she slashed it repeatedly down my wrist, "not THIS way" the knife turned and cut across, just hard enough to scratch without leaving an open wound.

The need to escape finally seized control. I grabbed the remnants of my ring and ran to my room, locking the door behind me. My legs refused to hold me upright and I slumped to the floor. Too stunned for tears, too detached to fathom the magnitude of what she had done, I zeroed in on the tiny red beads welling up from the chicken scratches on my wrist. They'd heal quickly. No one had to know.

I took a bandaid from my purse and put it over the cuts on my upper arm. Never again. Keep them hidden. Never let them see it. Never let them know.

Dry lips cracked into a wry smile as I rubbed the raw skin she had written her lesson on. I didn't know there was a correct way to slash your wrists.

Learn something new every day.

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"Charms" was my first writing project, written from December 2023 to February 2024.

They are a collection of memories attached to found or given objects that I've collected for over 25 years.

The stories are posted to Substack in their raw, unedited form.

Most are only a few hundred words.

The project remains incomplete.