Girl in Pieces
: Part 3 – Chapter 11

It’s early morning and I haven’t slept yet, Louisa’s words still electric inside me. Cutting is a fence you build upon your own body to keep people out but then you cry to be touched. But the fence is barbed. What then? When I pull myself out of bed Linus tells me that Felix is letting me work in one of the empty bedrooms, the smallest one. Devvie and Tanner move a tall table, a stool, and boxes of supplies—pads, pencils, inks, pens, and paints—into the room for me. Devvie is an angular girl with a penchant for flannel shirts and track pants. She is something called ABD at New York University.

The room smells musty. Outside, the horse nickers. Tanner takes him out for a ride every morning at this time. I sit on the floor, dirt and dust sticking to the backs of my calves.

Felix said to do something I loved. Or felt complicated passion for. Ariel said to use myself. Louisa gave me the story of her life. A drunk and a drunk met and they made a mess: me. I was born with a broken heart.

I trace the scars on my legs, feel up under my shirt at the years of cuts healed and unhealed. It is all I am, now, these lines and burns, the moments behind them. A girl is born.

In the musty room, I select a sketchbook with thick, creamy paper, and dark pens. Using a ruler, I begin a frame on one piece of paper, testing the flow of the black pen, its feel in my fingers. It works like water over the paper, no pushing like with charcoal. On another piece of paper, I sketch, lightly, testing myself, testing the images that appear.

A girl is born. I start with myself: a girl with clumpy hair in a yellowy, fuzzy cardigan on the first day of a new school, all her scars hidden under the sweater and her jeans. What a sad girl she is, mouth clamped shut, eyes burning, a force field of anger and fear vibrating inside her. She watches the other kids, how easily they move around each other, laughing, adjusting headphones, whispering. She wants to say My father is in the river down the street but she says nothing. She meets a beautiful girl with wild purple hair and white, white skin. The beautiful, momentous girl smells sweet and creamy, like face powder and too much black eyeliner.

The beautiful, momentous girl is fucking angelic.

Louisa wrote, Each aberration of my skin is a song. Press your mouth against me. You will hear so much singing.

I draw and lose the hours.

As the story progresses, the character of Charlie loses more clothing, piece by piece, her pale young woman’s flesh taking on more and more damage as the arc unfolds. I fall asleep on my arms on the table. I wake and resume the story. I am no good at talking, no good at making the right words reel from my brain to my mouth and out, but I’m good at this, my pictures and the words I can write. I’m good at this.

This is what Felix meant. What you do should fly through your blood, carrying you somewhere.

My fingers begin to cramp, and I need some space, and air. I leave the house quietly. I walk for a long time in the desert, replaceing a shaded spot under a cottonwood to rest, balancing one of Louisa’s books on my knees. It’s quiet and empty and full out here, in the desert, all at once. I burrow deep into Tanner’s fleece.

Louisa wrote, People should know about us. Girls who write their pain on their bodies.

I read and reread her life slowly. It’s difficult and it hurts, but she gave me her words and her story, every bloody bit of it.

No one bothers me. No one comes to ask what I’m doing. When I’m hungry, I go to the kitchen and make a sandwich, fill a glass of water, return to the room, and keep drawing the comic.

—

I think it takes three days, maybe four, I can’t tell, I don’t know, but at some point, I just have a feeling, something clear and final that says: Finished. For now, finished.

I gently gather all my papers and put them in order, place them in a tidy pile on the tall table, clean up the pens, dump the pencil shavings in the basket under the window.

Everything Casper wanted me to say I’ve drawn instead.

I have a voice. I have a place for my voice.

I look down at the sloppy, too-big sweatpants Linus gave me, the waistband rolled down three times, and the giant NYU T-shirt Devvie loaned me. I think of my overalls back in the wrecked and bloody apartment, my long jersey shirts, the clompy black boots. It’s time for different things. It’s time for me to speak again.

I strip off the borrowed clothes, shivering in the cool air from the open window. I wrap a gray wool blanket around myself and leave the room, quietly slipping out the back door. I sit on the steps for a long time, in the fresh cold, listening to the desert unfold around me, its chirps and squeaks and howls, listening to the sounds of Felix murmuring inside, Linus and Tanner squabbling over cards.

It sounds like home, all of it.