The Perfect Girl

32

Trigger warning.

"She's not quite ready,                                                                                                                                                         Still a little unsteady,"

I was silent, unable to reply, a lump suddenly appearing in my throat.

The sight of the scars, a sight I had done my best to hide from my own as well as everyone else's eyes, caused an immediate drop in the pit of my stomach.  My mind began to fade into darkness, something like guilt or grief crowding the edges of my vision.

"Hiba?" his voice was angry in a way I'd never heard before, "What is this?"

"Nothing," I mumbled, pulling my wrist out of his grasp and tugging my sleeve over it.

"Was that..." he swallowed, "Did you do that?"

"I--" I began, then couldn't continue.

He grabbed my wrist, turning it upwards, and pushed the sleeve up.  His fingers, rough from use but gentle as a whisper over my skin, traced the lines that I had cut into my body.  

"Hiba," he said, fury seething into his words, "How did this happen?  Tell me!"

I ripped my wrist away and got up.

"I don't want to talk about it!"

"You need to tell me!" he said, voice raising.

"No, Khalid!"

"Why, love?"

The word, the endearment, brought me a little comfort.

"I don't want to." I whimpered, suddenly losing whatever rage had been fueling the strength in my answers. 

He stood up beside me, reached his arms out towards me, an offer and not a demand, and I walked into them.  He wrapped his arms around my shoulders.  My head was buried in his chest, my stupid, weak body collapsing against him.

"When?" he asked, very softly, "That's all I want to know, you can tell me everything else later.  When was the last time?"

"3 years ago." I whispered, a broken sort of attempt at communication.

"You won't tell me anything?"

"I--" a stutter, "I don't want to talk about all the damage I've done to my insufficient body."

"Your body is not insufficient, baby," he murmured, "Look, I'm not going to force you to tell me anything.  But you shouldn't pull away from this because you're scared of what I'm gonna say, or insecure about who you are."

I swallowed, looked up at him.  His eyes were intense, burning, the kind of eyes I could only look at for a moment without fearing that he might be able to read my thoughts.

"It started when I was 18," I rasped, my voice suddenly too raw, "Something had just happened with a friend of mine," the friend was Safa, "And it felt like my fault.  At the same time, I don't know, I was just not at a good place in general.  Being around people was like torture, and it didn't matter how nice they were.  I felt like an outcast everywhere.  And one day," I shook my head, "It all just bubbled up.  I'd just had a conversation with the friend, where she basically told me she thought I was useless, and there was just, like... no one there.  I was so utterly, completely alone.  So I picked up a razor and cut my wrist," I bit down hard on my lip, studying his face for disgust.  There was nothing but a sort of pain.  "And it-- it felt good.  Like maybe there was something I could do right, something I could control.  So I did it again.  And then every time things became too much, I just cut my wrist.  Eventually, I starting cutting so often it was scary."

"How did you stop?"

"My mother," I breathed, "She didn't know I was cutting, but she knew something was wrong.  She helped me work through it.  And then it just all sort of made sense and I stopped." I gulped, "I know this is all like, horrible, and you're probably thinking that I'm overly sensitive for feeling like th--"

"I don't think that," he interrupted, speaking in a simple sort of voice, like he was talking about the weather, "Why do you think you're so flawed?"

"Because I am," I tried to laugh.

"How?"

"I'm hot-tempered, too sensitive, I get defensive quick, I have a slow reaction time, I'm clumsy, should I continue?"

He shook his head, "I don't think you're overly sensitive at all, love. I think you just feel things strongly, and that makes you one of the strongest, most incredible people ever. Because you know what it feels like to hurt, to experience all emotions so intensely, you're empathetic.  You're hot-tempered, yes, but only because you have firm opinions, and you don't like it when people disrespect you.  There's nothing wrong with that.  And you getting defensive?" he clenched his jaw, "That's because other people attack you so much you're used to it.  And, yeah, you have a slow reaction time and you're clumsy," he laughed, "But personally, I find it adorable."

I didn't know what to say, how to reply.

"And you know what?  Even if you really were all that flawed, I'd still love you."

And just like that, I was smiling.