Harold didn't see the ground coming up toward him, he felt it. Only after a second of disorientation and the reminder of gravity and pain did he realize that he was face first in the dirt, the feet of the cause of his predicament walking away. He tried hard to prevent his tears. He was unsuccessful.

Harold got up slowly, wanting to wait until the crowd dispersed. Luckily then, the bell rang to start the rest of the kids off to class.
 

In the bathroom Harold stayed bent over the sink as the running water washed his blood down the drain. He turned the water off and waited as the tear filled water dripped from his face. When the drops stopped he pulled down two paper towels and patted his face. Looking up into the mirror he lowered the wet paper and slowly revealed his reflection. To his relief his lip was only slightly split and no longer bleeding.

"Hey, Harold!"

He turned in panic, dropping the paper towels, his hands behind him gripping the sink.

A small boy named Joel was there asking something about the science class.

Panic gave way to embarrassment and Harold blurted out, "No!"

"Well, okay," the boy said. "You don't have to..."

But Harold hurried out without listening.
 

In class many kids kept glancing at him and he noticed there were a few drops of blood on his grey shirt. He leaned forward hunching his shoulders more. With the back of his thumb he could feel that his lip was swelling.

"Harold?"

He looked up, again in panic.

"Harold?" the teacher said. "Do you need to see the nurse?"

"What?" Harold said, his voice dry, his eyes pleading. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said and lowered his gaze. Muffled laughter came from the back of the room. For the second time this morning Harold fought back tears. In almost every other class the rest of the day a similar scene played out.
 

With the final bell came relief. Harold now only had to survive the way to the bus. With a sense of withdrawn invisibility, the journey was uneventful and he was able to sit in a seat by himself near the front. In the glare of the sun on the windsheild as the bus left the school he could catch an occasional reflection of Joel, also sitting by himself, also sitting quiet and dejected.

The memory of his encounter with Joel in the bathroom this morning came to him. I was afraid, Harold wanted to tell him. But how does one admit to fear? Fear cuts deep and both ways Harold knew. He could see this in Joel's reflection too.
 

"Mom?" Harold looked from room to room for his mother when he got home, finally finding her standing before her mirror adjusting her stockings. "Mom? Can we..."

"Not now, Harold. I'm late."

"What about dinner?"

"You can order a pizza. I've left money in the kitchen."

"Again?"

"You think I should do everything around here? Cook the dinner. Do the laundry. Do the driving. Work my ass off. I pay the bills you know."

"Yeah, but..."

"But what!" she said turning to him. "Who pays for your computer? Huh? You spend so much time on it! What do you do all night, huh?"

"I play..."

"You play games! Yeah, well, I gotta have my time too, yeah know?"

Harold's face began to turn red and he turned away as tears came for the second time today. "Okay, Mom," he said.

"Oh, hon, look, I..." She stood a moment, looking at him. She reached out but Harold moved away. "I gotta go," she continued. "He's waiting."

"I'll be okay, Mom."

At the top of the stairs Harold paused, then continued on to his room after he heard the sound of the front door close as she left.

It's okay he said to himself. It's okay he repeated several more times as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt with his right hand. After the last button he flipped the top back and pulled out his right arm. He slowly inched his left arm out, wincing a little as the bandages were revealed.

Leaving the shirt to fall on the floor he sat on his bed near the table with the several unfinished paperbacks he was trying to read, the cup he forgot about each morning this week, the small framed mirror he kept close. With his left arm near the mirror he ran his fingers lightly over the bandages on the back of his forearm, now beginning to itch.

He peeled the bandages off one by one. He did it slowly from the bottom up as he always did. When he finished he held his arm up to the mirror. There were five this time.

Mirrors are for admiring, aren't they? Not just for checking pimples, or hairs. Admiring? Isn't that what people do?

Mom. Admiring herself in the mirror before going out each night. "Not now, Harold. I'm late." Why do you have to go?

Girls. Admiring themselves in the mirrors at the mall as they try on outfits. "Not you, Harold. You're weird." Why do they have to tease?

The Barber. Admiring his own work in multiple imagery. "How's that look, Son?" "Just fine." No it's not. Why can't I have it long?

Harold stared at the image of his arm in the mirror. Is it me? Is this me? Is this my admiration?

Below the mirror rests his blade. His razor.

He reaches for the razor and his heart anticipates. With every inch closer his heart beats faster. With its touch his heart rate peaks. His hand trembles this time. More than usual.

Relaxed a little now, blood pumping, adrenalin flowing, giddiness rising, he admires his forearm in the mirror. Five bulging red parallel lines, highlighting the other smaller pink and white lines, older lines. The older lines remind him that he usually does not add to them so soon. But lately....

His heart races again as the blade just touches the skin, races faster than ever. Eyes closed, elbow raised, heart pumping, he presses and pulls.

But it didn't work. Disappointment? Disappointment. Again he pulls.

It's barely a scratch. I couldn't do it. Again? Again.

Elbow higher, heart racing even more, he pulls again. Next to nothing. Pulls again. Nothing still. "I can't do it."

Harold collapses on his arm on his bed sobbing. Tears racing now and his heart cooling. "I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't...."
 

It is late when he wakes. There is some blood crusted on his arm, on the sheets, but not much. When he sits up he sees his face in the mirror. Admiration? No. Not this time. His arm itches and he brings it up to scratch, but he covers the newly made scratches with his palm. In the mirror his face was out of focus behind his arm.

"My God," he says to his image. "What am I doing? What have I done?"

His heart starts racing again. Yet, not with adrenalin this time, but with fear. He pulled his hand away from his arm and placed it upon his heart.

It's my heart, he thought. That's what it is. My heart feels like it's outside my chest, that it beats out in the open, exposed to the elements, to the wind and dust. I am afraid to touch it, that it might be touched. And hiding my exposed heart is making me hunched as I walk trying to cover it up, lest it touch someone, be touched by someone.

"My God it hurts," Harold cried out loud. "And I want to cut it off! But I can't! I can't! It's me! My God, it's me! It is my heart. My hurt. But not my fault!

"Does not everyone have a heart? Are there not people willing to help? Joel, at school, he too looked like he had a heart.

"I can't keep cutting. I can't. I can't! I won't!"
 

Harold was waiting by the door when his mother came in that night.

"Oh, Harold. What are you doing up? What are.... What's wrong with your arm! Harold! You're crying. Oh, Harold! What's wrong?"

"Mom," Harold stammered. "I need... we need to talk."