Twenty-four.

“No,” Madison answered with more certainty than I’d ever heard in her voice. That’s how I knew…

“You’re lying.”

“I’m fine.”

“You aren’t convincing.”

Finally, Madison sat up. She was upset. Wait, no, was she… angry?

“Leave me alone, Jamie! I didn’t ask you to come here!”

Before she could stop me, I shoved her arm, right where I’d tried to hug her only seconds before. She winced; actually, she recoiled. She actually looked sick. Dizzy, like she was going to throw up.

“Madison.” It was my turn to be upset. I didn’t raise my voice but fuck if I didn’t sharpen it. My words could have cut glass. She froze in place. “I will work around all of the silly, specific idiosyncrasies that make you who you are, and I love you for them. But if you are hurt, there is nothing you can say to keep me from making sure you’re okay. Do you understand me?”

“Love me…?” Madison blinked.

“…what?”

“You said… you love me?” she stared, wide-eyed and bewildered, oblivious to the tears dripping down her cheeks. Like everything else I said meant nothing. Like everything about her being hurt, and making sure she was okay…

“Of course,” I mumbled, unable to meet her ever-present stare. Like she’d never again take her eyes off me, and I’d never again get to peek beyond her glasses without embarrassment washing over me. What the fuck was I thinking? “Now will you take off your damn jacket?” And to both of our surprise, she actually did.

I didn’t know what to expect. Her dad always struck me as the kind of guy I shouldn’t trust. A loud, boisterous man, perhaps quick to anger the way he was quick to criticize his daughter over every little detail. It wasn’t unreasonable to think he would hit her, even if he didn’t mean it. A few bruises, here or there. Purple blotches infecting her otherwise beautiful, frail skin.

Then again, her mom never struck me as a dumb woman either. She wasn’t the kind of person who wouldn’t notice. Maybe she was afraid of being hit. Or maybe her and Madison shared a mutual affection for make believe. Maybe she was content enough to bury herself in social obligations, party dinners, and charity fundraisers, so much so that letting a thought or two slip her mind - like why her daughter wears a hoodie to bed - was okay. Maybe she could turn a blind eye to other things too.

When Madison took off her jacket, I saw her arms for the first time since grade school. No cardigan, no sweater, no coat. But it wasn’t bruises that decorated her arms above the elbow. They were cuts. Small, precise, parallel cuts. Intentional, practiced, polished cuts. And I realized all at once who the villain of the story was.

“Oh, no…”

She didn’t say anything. I had to say something. I had to do something. But what was I supposed to do? Splotches of dried blood decorated her left arm. Like a painting. My stomach spun in circles in the worst possible way.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I told her, gently and leaving no room for argument. “Come on.”

I took her hand in mine and walked her out of her bedroom and into the bathroom across the hall. I soaked a washcloth under warm water and found antiseptic and bandages behind the mirror. Madison sat down on the lid of the toilet, looking at anything but her arms. Well, her arms, and me.

“It’s okay,” I told her, though it wasn’t. It wasn’t okay. Fuck, was this not okay. But it would be. Right? I should say that. “It will be okay. Just relax.”

Here, in the bright bathroom lights, I could get a better look. There was only one cut that was bleeding, or had been bleeding. Once I washed away the blood with the warm washcloth, it looked a lot better. A thin, jagged line, red and bright and sore. I put antiseptic on it all the same. The rest of the lines were pink or white, long since healed. I counted eleven.

“It’s going to be okay,” I told her, but I wasn’t able to manage a convincing smile. I went to her other arm - the right side - but there wasn’t anything I could do. This side only had five lines. One was hard and red, recent. Last night, maybe? I rinsed the rag in the bathroom sink, and tried not to think about it. About how, if I’d stayed last night, or if I’d come over sooner…

“Jamie?”

“Hmm? Yeah?” I turned back to her with another fake smile. Fuck.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.” Of course she’d say something like that.

“I just don’t like seeing you hurt.”

"I didn't want you to see."

"That's not what I meant," I said with a touch of irritation, but I quickly let that ebb away into gentle concern. "I want you to be safe. This? This isn't safe."

"It's fine," she shrugged.

"It's not fine. It's not okay. And... and I just. Don't. Understand." That was the truth of the matter. An exasperated, undeniable, lack of understanding. "Why? Why would you..."

She shrugged. How could she be so annoying and so beautiful at the same time?

"Tell me how you feel. Even if it's stupid. Just try to help me understand here. Please."

"It makes the bad things go away," she mumbled. "The dark things."

“The ones that fill you up?”

She nodded. I sighed softly and sat down on the bathroom floor, in front of the toilet, so I could look up at her. I tried to keep my stare from glossing over her arms, but when our eyes met… well it wasn’t so hard anymore.

“Go on.”

“They just shut up after I do it. Like… I got what was coming to me.”

“You don’t deserve this, though. It’s not fair on you.”

She shrugged again. Did she… really think she deserved it?

“Madison. You don’t deserve it. No matter what those thoughts tell you, they aren’t real. They are just terrible, terrible things. They aren’t yours. They aren’t true.”

Wait…

“Madison… what was today’s thought? What has you so upset?”

“My birthday is tomorrow,” she mumbled. “I hate my birthday.”

“…because you’re getting older,” I guessed correctly.

“I’ll never be as little as I am now, ever again… never be as cute. Never be… closer to…”

“Oh…”

This thought wasn’t like her other ones. The others were exaggerations. They were tricks her mind played on her. But this one was a statement of reality, fighting against her preference to ignore it. This thought was real and true and irrefutable. And that was what made this thought so dangerous, so scary, and it was what made me so useless. But there was one thing she was wrong about.

“I’ve known you for ten years, Madison Bell, and honestly, sincerely, with all my heart, every single day, you only get cuter. And tomorrow, when you turn seventeen, you’ll be cuter still.”

She faked a smile, but stifled a laugh. Maybe because I had gotten flowery with my words, or maybe because she thought it was a joke. Or maybe she was relieved that someone actually thought she was cute at her age. But it was progress. A step in the right direction.

“Talk to me next time,” I said with a smile, a real one, because I honestly believed she might listen.

I learned a lot of things about Madison that Sunday evening. I learned about her jackets and I learned about her scars. I learned about her fears and I learned another bad thought. I learned how important this little stuff was to her. But more remarkable, more surprising, more unbelievable than anything else: I learned Madison Bell was actually two and a half weeks older than me.