Cuts...
Only Chapter
Dried blood. Fresh blood. Rows of jagged lines. Some of them are healed over completely and are just scars, rising up above the rest of my skin, a calm snow colour contrasting against my peachy arms. Others have only just been made and the ruby liquid is sliding down the side of my arm, dripping onto the rough blue carpet below. I can’t see it. Tears are burning the corners of my eyes. Sharp tears. Sharp, like the blades that glide over my flesh.
I’m not happy with my life as you can well tell. It’s not that I want to kill myself. It’s just that… I don’t know what I’m meant to do with myself. Frustration. Anger. Misery. All bottled up inside of me, with no way of spouting out. Sometimes I feel so bad I just scratch with my fingernails until they’re broken, torn, and my arms are raw red and numb. Those are the worst days. Those are the days where I’m sore for the rest of the week, where the scabs stay scarlet for months on end. Those are the days.
Other days, like today, I grab a razor, and lead it over past scars so that juice bubbles out and spills over the surface. I know it must sound so weird to people who’ve never done it before, people who lead happy lives free from heartbreak and anguish. But slitting myself is like letting pressure out a balloon; it whistles away until the balloon is saggy. Until I’m reasonably happy. Until I don’t feel like my life is pointless, like my life is wasting away, like my life is a never-ending vortex of gloom that I’m being sucked into continuously.
Fate isn’t on my side. It never has been. Not since high school. I was alright before high school. But then the bullying began and I’ve never been the same. I’m thinking about the main bully – Ella – and I’m squeezing my eyes shut in pain. I’m closing my eyes so I don’t have to see the damage I’m doing to myself. I don’t have to see it – I can feel the cool metal riding against my warm skin, the single prickly sensation that makes me flinch, and then the blood that tickles my skin, dripping, sliding, falling.
I’m furious with myself for not getting help about this, but there isn’t much I can do. The only phone is downstairs – I don’t have a mobile – and my parents don’t like me using it. It’s like they’re scared I’ll turn into one of those phone-hogging bimbos that strut around on their mobiles at school while I skulk in the corner… ha. As if. I don’t have any friends, so how could I phone anyone anyway? I warily open my eyes and let a small smile flicker across my face in satisfaction. The pain makes me feel so much better; the sight of blood makes me quiver happily. Am I happy? Or am I just pretending to be?
I shakily stand up and stare at the mirror on my wall. It’s hard to see. My eyes are sore from crying, the corners gritty and rough. But I can make out my basic features. Lanky, mousey hair that’s greasy and dangling beside my face. A pale face with a mouth with corners that twitch downwards. I reach up with one arm and run my fingers along my cheek. It’s soft, but my fingers are coarse. Their tips are tainted with blood.
I can see the ugly scars of my past cuts protruding from my arm. They make me feel sick.
Dried blood. Fresh blood. Rows of jagged lines. Some of them are healed over completely and are just scars, rising up above the rest of my skin, a calm snow colour contrasting against my peachy arms. Others have only just been made and the ruby liquid is sliding down the side of my arm, dripping onto the rough blue carpet below. I can’t see it. Tears are burning the corners of my eyes. Sharp tears. Sharp, like the blades that glide over my flesh.
I’m determined to get help.
I’m not happy with my life as you can well tell. It’s not that I want to kill myself. It’s just that… I don’t know what I’m meant to do with myself. Frustration. Anger. Misery. All bottled up inside of me, with no way of spouting out. Sometimes I feel so bad I just scratch with my fingernails until they’re broken, torn, and my arms are raw red and numb. Those are the worst days. Those are the days where I’m sore for the rest of the week, where the scabs stay scarlet for months on end. Those are the days.
Other days, like today, I grab a razor, and lead it over past scars so that juice bubbles out and spills over the surface. I know it must sound so weird to people who’ve never done it before, people who lead happy lives free from heartbreak and anguish. But slitting myself is like letting pressure out a balloon; it whistles away until the balloon is saggy. Until I’m reasonably happy. Until I don’t feel like my life is pointless, like my life is wasting away, like my life is a never-ending vortex of gloom that I’m being sucked into continuously.
Fate isn’t on my side. It never has been. Not since high school. I was alright before high school. But then the bullying began and I’ve never been the same. I’m thinking about the main bully – Ella – and I’m squeezing my eyes shut in pain. I’m closing my eyes so I don’t have to see the damage I’m doing to myself. I don’t have to see it – I can feel the cool metal riding against my warm skin, the single prickly sensation that makes me flinch, and then the blood that tickles my skin, dripping, sliding, falling.
I’m furious with myself for not getting help about this, but there isn’t much I can do. The only phone is downstairs – I don’t have a mobile – and my parents don’t like me using it. It’s like they’re scared I’ll turn into one of those phone-hogging bimbos that strut around on their mobiles at school while I skulk in the corner… ha. As if. I don’t have any friends, so how could I phone anyone anyway? I warily open my eyes and let a small smile flicker across my face in satisfaction. The pain makes me feel so much better; the sight of blood makes me quiver happily. Am I happy? Or am I just pretending to be?
I shakily stand up and stare at the mirror on my wall. It’s hard to see. My eyes are sore from crying, the corners gritty and rough. But I can make out my basic features. Lanky, mousey hair that’s greasy and dangling beside my face. A pale face with a mouth with corners that twitch downwards. I reach up with one arm and run my fingers along my cheek. It’s soft, but my fingers are coarse. Their tips are tainted with blood.
I can see the ugly scars of my past cuts protruding from my arm. They make me feel sick.
Dried blood. Fresh blood. Rows of jagged lines. Some of them are healed over completely and are just scars, rising up above the rest of my skin, a calm snow colour contrasting against my peachy arms. Others have only just been made and the ruby liquid is sliding down the side of my arm, dripping onto the rough blue carpet below. I can’t see it. Tears are burning the corners of my eyes. Sharp tears. Sharp, like the blades that glide over my flesh.
I’m determined to get help.