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A Story
-- I sat there in the bathroom, crying, the smell of blood was thick in the air. I could feel
my arms tingle with every gash I inflicted. The lights were dimmed, and nobody was home. I was
free to do what I wanted, and what I wanted to do was be free. So I cut. All up and down my
arms, the razor dragged with an unforgiving sting. My wounds bled with no mercy, draining down
into the bath tub. I felt so alive, so comforted. I stopped, dropped the razor, and gazed back
on the damage I had done. It was bad, a few even needed stitches. But I was proud of what I had
done, I would bask in glory of this for days. At least I thought I would…
The next day at school, I mistakenly wore a short sleeve shirt. I was glared at even from afar.
People looked at my arms with such concern. They thought I was a monster. Some freakish,
self-abusing, monster. I could see it in their faces, they were afraid to ask. A little piece
inside of me wanted them to ask. I wanted the attention. I could feel my insides, though,
churning with regret. “What have I done?” I asked myself. What have I done?
I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to avoid the scars. But I couldn’t take my eyes away
from the endless shades of purple and red. They stuck out angrily, like they were bursting with
hate. That’s what they were, full of hate – hate for myself. They bulged with an uprising sting
and guilt. I wanted to cry. But I couldn’t cry. I wouldn’t cry. Not in front of everyone, not
where they can see me. No. No, because then they would know that I was weak, and they can’t
know that. They absolutely can’t know that…. Jessica began to stare at my arm. I quickly
covered myself with my sleeve.
“What the fuck did you do?!?” She screamed, drawing attention directly in my area.
“Nothing, I fell!” I retaliated, convinced that she would believe it.
That’s it, I fell. I fell straight onto a razor, and then I got up and fell several more times.
Ten times and more times. That’s exactly what happened. I instantly ran into the bathroom.
How could she be so cruel? Why did she have to say it so harsh? I felt my scars with my
index and middle finger, gliding over the crusted scabs and dried blood. My eyes were beginning
to water. I needed relief. I needed to cut. From my bag, I pulled out a long, slender pin. Its
tip was slightly blunt, but I knew it was sharp enough. The smell of marijuana sifted from
under the bathroom stall next to me as I let the pin sit on my flesh. I waited. I waited for it
to build up, which took no time at all. Suddenly, I went deaf and all I could see was flashes
of people yelling, people screaming, people dying. I saw a flash of my mom hitting me, my dad
raping me over and over again. I saw an image of me, crying. But I couldn’t realize that that
image was just a mirror, reflecting what was going on now. I looked down at what I had done,
long, red stripes dangled from my skin. The blood began to seep from the tiny cuts and I winced
as the sensation came back to me. The stinging was terrible, I could barely move my arm. All I
could remember was watching the cuts bleed and then seeing the side of the bathroom
floor. --
© J, 11 April 2006
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