Read Crossing the Line for Free Online Page A

Waving goodbye from a taxi window.
    And now the blade is pressing, slicing into the skin. Leaving a thin crimson trail. Pearls of blood. And I am watching, detached. My mind is moving into a place of peace. Peace without pain.
    The hand flicks in all directions, creating roads that intersect. Roads long and definite that lead to nowhere. Roads like my life. Without beginning. Without destination.
    There. It’s done.
    I stare in the mirror at the trails, mesmerised as they swell into claret-red, beaded strings. A stranger stares back at me. Her arms are cut and she’s bleeding.
    We keep watching one another, savouring these brief moments of freedom. She and I are connected by the cuts.
    Finally I step out of the dream state. The world is real again and there’s a stinging sensation. It’s a pain more bearable than having to deal with the chaos in my mind. Even if only for a short time, my anxiety is gone. I’m in control.
    Dabbing the blood, I watch it soak into the tissue, spreading. Then I dress in clean clothes and wind a handkerchief around my arm to hide my secret.
    In my room I sit with eyes closed and focus on the pain, listen to the breeze outside slapping a bush against the window. When my mind is settled, the crazy thoughts banished, I go into the kitchen for a mug of warm milk and a slice of cake, before heading off to clean the house.

7

    A fter school one day Greta invites me over to her place. It’s not wild and chaotic as I’d imagined. Instead, it’s clean and neat and comfy. Crocheted rugs, patch-worked wall hangings, and photos of family and friends in frames adorn every ledge and table. It’s a home that’s loved.
    Greta is like a string bean, long and thin. Now I meet her mother for the first time – and she’s short and dumpy with burnt-grey hair in need of a cut.
    ‘Sophie, meet Dragon Lady. Grrrr!’ Greta drapes herself around her mother’s shoulders, grinning and chuckling.
    ‘I’ll Dragon Lady you,’ her mum replies, the affection between them obvious. ‘Call me Daisy,’ she says. ‘Good to meet you, Sophie.’ She hugs me and then grimaces. ‘Sorry, I forgot I had flour on my hands.’
    ‘Oh, so have I,’ says Greta. She takes delight in slapping my backside to cover me in flour marks.
    ‘Watchit, you,’ I snarl, but I’m not angry and Greta knows it.
    ‘Behave yourself!’ Daisy scolds. ‘She’s such a menace, Sophie.’
    A pang of envy stabs at me. It would be so good to have this kind of relationship – so good to have a mum.
    ‘I’m going to make you a drink,’ Daisy calls as she waddles off to the kitchen. ‘Would you like some biscuits with it?’
    ‘No biscuits, Mum.’ Greta winks at me. ‘Just bring in a bottle of bourbon.’
    ‘In your dreams,’ Daisy calls back.
    I wander over to check out a photo of the whole family on the wall, two beaming parents with three clear-eyed children smiling angelically, and then there’s Greta, no blue and red hair but still playing up for the camera, cross-eyed, her face wreathed in laughter.
    ‘Come and listen to the best music in the world.’ Greta grabs my hand and guides me down the hall to her room.
    The great divide between my life and hers hits me, crushes me. Everything seems so simple for her, so definite. She’s happy and confident. I see the same contentment in her at school. It bubbles out of her like spring water. And she seems so uncomplicated. I’m sure that Greta never mulls over matters as I do until her head is jammed so tightly that it feels as though it’s going to explode. That’s a world she doesn’t even know exists. I could never tell her about the grudges I harbour, the hurts and anxieties that eat away at me like acid. But I can put on the act of being like her today – I lap it up. We veg out together on the floor, music blaring, her loving mum hovering about. But behind the facade I see myself in the mirror, slashing until there is nothing left but a bloodied mess.

    ‘How do you eat