If you only knew

"If you only knew how much you hurt me."

That is what I would say to my dad if I ever see him again.

He had left four years ago, today.

My parents had been going through some trouble for awhile.

Then one day, something inside him just snapped. I don't know what went through his head, but a sudden change erupted in him.

He had screamed that he hated my mother, he had hit her across her face.

He had yelled that I was a disappointment and a failure as a daughter.

"Lies." My mother had later said, "All lies."

But something deep inside me had changed too.

He left that day, having secretly packed his bags the night before. He had planned it all, the grand finale.

And a bitter finale at that.

After that day, I drifted into depression.

My mom thought I was fine, though, since I didn't let her see.

I figured she'd already been through enough. I didn't want her to be caused more pain than she already had.

So I stayed quiet and tried to be a perfect daughter.

Even when she got a boyfriend, I somehow acted fine, despite the torment going on inside my head.

It was then, two years after he had left, that I started cutting.

Soon, my forearms were completely covered with the scars.

And still I kept doing it, marking over those scars, creating new ones.

I even went so far as to do it at school.

And I thank the stars I did.

It had been a blustery, 40 degree day in my little town of Cantersville, Tennessee. School had let out over an hour ago and I was near the back entrance, hunched over by the wall, trying to come to terms with my worthless self.

I was so engrossed in what I was doing that I hadn't noticed when the door had swung open and a boy had walked out.

I didn't even see when he kneeled beside me.

Only when he spoke did I finally startle.

"Don't do that."

A deep voice had spoken.

The blade had dropped from my hand with a clatter and I looked up at him, almost fearfully.

"What?"

I had asked, my voice raw.

"Don't do that."

He had repeated, reaching down and picking up the bloody razor.

There was a kind of sadness in his blue eyes as he did.

I recognized him from my art class, he was the quiet one with a shit-load of talent.

After throwing my blade away in the nearest trash can, he had come back to sit beside me.

"Hey, I'm Casey."

He had told me, offering his hand.

I had just stared at it.

"Mara."

I told him, gruffly.

"You need to stop."

He said, as he slowly peeled back the sleeve on my left arm.

I jerked away as his finger brushed one of the scars.

"Excuse me, but I don't even know you. Why do you care?"

I asked him, bitterly.

"Because I do."

Was his vague reply.

This made me stop what I was gonna say next, which was "get away from me".

Instead, I just stared at him.

No one has ever cared about me "just because" before.

No one.

"I'll tell you what,"

He began.

"I'll drive you home if you promise to give me all your razors tomorrow."

And despite my better judgement, going against my thoughts of "this is crazy", I agreed.

Casey Jones brought me to his car and drove me home, not saying a word the whole time, knowing I didn't want to talk.

He had walked me to my door and had waiting there while I unlocked it.

"Promise me you'll bring then."

He told me.

"Promise."

I answered.

"Lets shake on it."

He then said, offering me his hand for the second time that day.

And this time, I shook it.

His palm was warm and comforting.

He then turned and left, as quietly as he had first came.

And for the first time in forever, I actually smiled.