sixteen

And Ehud put forth his left hand, and took the dagger from his right thigh, and thrust it into his belly: And the haft also went in after the blade; and the fat closed upon the blade, so that he could not draw the dagger out of his belly; and the dirt came out.

- Judges 3:21-22

I wasn't sixteen but you were: A little bit sweet. A little bit changing. A little bit screwing around with hearts (mostly your own).

We would sit on top of the heater before school and laughed about the marks on your thighs. Bruises on the insides and cuts on the outsides. We laughed more about the bruises. Usually we ignored the cuts but every other Monday I'd have to hold the pieces of your legs together while we dampened each others' shoulders.

On these days the smell of wet school jersey followed me around the corridors. Even if I went outside the smell wouldn't dissipate. It would hover two inches above the grass and become airborne on small breezes. I became saturated in your stench. Your tears became my signature scent.

The front lawn at school had a huge tree that beckoned us every lunch time. You liked to wrap your arms around its trunk, even tough it was so big that your hands didn't quite meet.

Once I got out of class late and saw you doing this from across the grass. You didn't know I was watching. There was an absence of students. Just you and the tree. And me watching.

The tree lifted its roots out of the ground and stuck them down your throat. You started to go pale blue. I wasn't sure though because you were always a little bit blue - I think you had bad circulation - and you also had blue eyes which seemed to cover your entire body and anyway I thought maybe the tree was just hugging you back. I thought you liked having the tree inside you. Being force-fed bark. I was jealous of the tree having you and I was jealous of you being strangled so beautifully.

A few days after this you came to school and said, "I started reading the bible. I'm going to read the whole thing from beginning to end." I pictured you in your room - even though I'd never once been to your house - reading beside a lamp and becoming holy. You looked pretty hiding in the dim light.

When you left to go to class I looked at my fingertips and wondered if I should be holding rice paper too.

Two days later your face had changed and you told me you didn't understand God. "I'm going to keep something sharp in my bible," you said. What a strange religion.

After some time of you being devout, there was a morning on the heaters when you put your hand over mine. I could feel the shapes of a needle and cotton spool. "I've been sewing," you said, and lifted your hand up to show me the needle as proof.

I knew you couldn't sew. Red was seeping through your stockings onto your grey and maroon plaid skirt. Sometimes when I went to my locker to get books between classes there'd be tiny trails of blood and cotton underneath my steps. And even after I grew out of my jersey and had to buy a new one I could smell the wet wool clinging to my back. The backs of my thighs were cold every morning and I reckon this is why the muscles there are sore all the time.

If I got bored in English I would imagine you using your bible to make paper cuts inside your thighs. That way the bruises would hide them well and then you could pretend you'd gotten really good at sewing and I'd see through your lie but I'd pretend to believe you because I know you wanted me to. I never got to touch the bruises even though you suggested this once. I could have stuck my fingers in the cuts. It would have been so easy to do so while I was holding your legs. But I never did. I was afraid you'd say prayers into my hands. My hands were important to me so I could do things like write notes and pass my exams.

For all my concern over my hands, I forgot my hamstrings. Older, I have very stiff legs. Today, they are aching a lot. Tell me, how's God doing?