The central heating had clicked off by the time I woke, the cold air nipping at my exposed skin.
The clock told me it was half past three and I groaned in protest before stretching for the corner of my duvet.
A slicing sensation in my arm stopped me before I could reach it and suddenly the truth of what I’d done slapped me across the face.
It’d happened again. I’d given into it, hadn’t I?
My left hand moved hesitantly down to my right arm, tackling the job that my eyes were too ashamed to. The pain on contact shocked me upright, forcing me to look at what I’d done.
Initially there was nothing to see but a bulky wad of gauze, but as I teased it away from my skin I was left in no doubt. Around the cut was a drying patch of blood that had been staunched by the padding, but the wound itself was still angry, bleeding in protest as I pulled gently. Reaching to the floor with my good arm, I grabbed a fresh piece of gauze, plus the Savlon. Taking the cap off with my teeth, I smeared it on to the gauze and pressed gently, wincing as the cream fought with the cut.
The nail scissors were sat on another piece of gauze, at the end of the bed where I’d left them, the bloodstains wiped off, alcohol applied. I’d clean them again once my arm was sorted.
Being methodical about it all helped somehow. God knows there was no method to the rest of it. The rest of it was anarchy, this sudden wall of panic that I couldn’t fight off.
When the fear first came six months ago, I could beat it with deep breathing and pacing around. It scared me, but not enough to bother Dad with. I just put it down to hormones, and there was no way Dad was going to talk to me about that.
It’s about more than that, though. I’ve known that ever since the pacing stopped working. At first I upped the ante a bit, splashing my face with cold water, pressing my forehead against the condensation on the bedroom window. But that didn’t cut it either, not once I’d found Mum’s report and seen for definite what I’d done to her.
From that point on, a couple of months back, the fear had come thick and fast. Not every night at first, it picked its moments, overpowering me when I was at my most tired, most stressed. Teased me it did, working me up into such a sweat that I started to pinch at the skin on my arms, doing whatever I could to jolt myself to my senses.
That worked too for a while, until the fear got wise to it, pressing the accelerator so hard that a pinch didn’t touch the sides. Until there was nothing left to do but turn to the nail scissors in my bedside drawer.
I winced at the shame of it, casting my eye at the skin above my right elbow, the series of nicks and lines that sat in various states of repair. Some of them were long shallow scratches; others were short sharp nicks, clustered together like an equals sign. Not that any of them gave me the answer.
The only thing I knew was that the scissors worked. Why or how I had no idea, but to be honest that didn’t matter. For now it was enough – it had to be, until I worked out what to do to make the fear go away for good.
What I couldn’t afford to do was let it get in the way of school, of fitting in. If I started to show weakness now it would only make things worse, give them an opportunity to see what I was really about, and I couldn’t let that happen.
Gingerly I stood, wrapping the duvet around me without reducing pressure on the gauze.
Stop the bleeding. Check it’s clean. Bin all the evidence. Get some sleep. Follow those steps and I’d be OK. It was simple if I just followed the instructions.
When my eyes managed to open, they were greeted by a sight I hadn’t expected.
Dad was perched on the edge of the bed, cup of tea in hand, cigarette tucked behind his ear.
‘You look like I feel,’ he said softly. ‘There’s a cup of tea there for you. Couple of dunkers too if you want them.’
‘You been up long?’
‘Few hours,’ he lied, the wet hair slicked back on his head giving the game away. I watched him closely enough to know that the first thing he did every morning was have a shower.
I rolled towards my tea, the first real movement I’d dared since coming round, aside from blinking. But as I pushed my arm beneath me to sit up, I felt a white-hot pain shoot up it and I fell on to my back, swearing madly.
Dad was up in a flash, his arms on my shoulders, ‘Daisy? What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
I glimpsed under the duvet as discreetly as I could, and saw that my arm was covered in a crusted brown mess, the material sticking to it in places. It looked like a toddler had been finger-painting with it.
‘Didn’t sound like nothing. What’s hurting? Let me look.’
I recoiled, tucking my arm beneath me, trying to ignore the second wave of pain, which made me want to be sick.
‘I SAID IT’S NOTHING! Listen to me, will you?’
Dad was practically blasted off the bed with the force of my words. I’d never spoken to him like that. Never had reason to. And he didn’t know what to do as a result, except back away slowly towards the door.
‘OK. Sorry. I’ll … er … I’ll wait downstairs for you. Make you another tea.’
I could see his hand shaking as he reached for the handle, the colour in his face draining away.
I cringed as the door closed softly, knowing I’d hurt him as much as I’d hurt myself.
With the balled-up bedding under my arm, I plodded down the stairs towards the kitchen.
Dad was lost in his mug, a coffee as black as his mood steaming in front of him.
I scooted behind him, hoping to get to the washer without him noticing my bundle, but as I tried to ram it through the door, it unravelled just as Dad turned towards me. He clocked the large patch of blood on the corner.
‘You all right?’ he asked, his eyebrows turning up. ‘You have a nosebleed or something?’
My mind froze as my hands went into overdrive, shoving the load into the drum as quickly as I could, hoping the exertion would mean the blood rushed to my hands instead of my cheeks.
‘Daisy?’ Dad repeated. ‘I said, is everything all right?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, wobbling as I pulled myself to my feet. ‘Yeah, fine.’
‘Was it a nosebleed?’
I fixed him with a look, a desperate lie flitting into my mind just in time.
‘No, Dad,’ I mouthed slowly, ‘not a nosebleed, no. Believe me –’ and at this point I put a full stop between each word – ‘I. Don’t. Think. You. Want. To. Know. Know what I mean?’
Dad stared at me for a second longer than I thought he would, until the world’s biggest penny dropped and the prospect of talking about periods scared him half to death.
‘I’ll just finish your tea,’ he blushed, jumping to his feet and hiding behind the kettle.
I exhaled deeply, hoping I could breathe out the shame of the lie before Dad got back to the table.
Sliding a mug towards me, he stroked my head softly with his other hand, an action that made me want to confess everything.
Unfortunately he didn’t give me a chance.
‘You got plans for today?’
I shrugged. ‘Nothing exciting.’
‘Well, I reckon we can remedy that. There’s a double bill on at the Ritzy. Couple of spaghetti westerns that I haven’t seen in years. I reckon you’d love them. Do you fancy it?’
It wasn’t the kind of thing I ever said no to. Not out of duty, although I knew it made him happy. I gave him the biggest smile I had, nodding so hard I must have looked weird.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asked. ‘You know, if something’s bothering you, you can tell me. You know that, don’t you?’
I couldn’t look him in the eye and diverted my gaze to my cup instead.
‘I’m fine,’ I gulped. ‘Just tired. But thanks. And the same applies to you.’
He looked confused.
‘You know, if anything’s bothering you. I’m here for you too.’
It was an invite to talk about her, to tell me how much he missed her. But he didn’t, he just mirrored my reaction and studied his drink.
That was all I needed to know. He wasn’t all right, and neither was I, but at least we had Clint Eastwood to take our minds off it, for a few hours at least.