Sequel: Running With Scissors ›
Those Worse Off Than You
Part 23
When I got home, I threw open the front door and raced past my parents sitting on the living room couch to the bathroom down the hall where I locked the door behind me and looked at my dirty reflection. I looked like hell. I felt like hell too.
I moved my hair away from my face and turned on the cold water before opening the medicine cabinet and moving bottles out of the way looking for the familiar razorblade I kept hidden behind the Tylenol.
There was a quiet knock at the door.
“Go away,” I ordered loudly.
“Honey, can I come in,” my mother asked from the other side.
“No- just go away. Please,” I said and pulled out the blade.
She knocked a couple more times, trying to convince me to tell her what happened, and trying to get me to explain why I was late. She eventually left, knowing my juvenile routine. She thought I was just in here to settle down- she had no idea.
She knew once I settled down (or stopped hurting myself), I would come out and tell her what was wrong. I knew that wouldn’t be for a while.
After David died, which was pretty much when this all started, I sat in the bathroom for three hours with a bottle of overdue pills and the same razorblade I had in my hand now. I spent three hours debating whether or not to continue with my life. I don’t know how I debated to stay…
I looked in the mirror once more and took a heavy breath, looking down at my wrist as I pulled up my sleeve. I was getting sick of seeing the same old scars in the same place- I was going to make more. I looked at all the smooth clean areas around the scars and viciously ran the razorblade over it; making it not so perfect.
I smirk can across my face as I started listening to the pit-patter of blood drops on the linoleum floor and the stream of dark crimson liquid started down my wrist.
I’ve heard that people do it because they’d rather feel the physical pain than the emotional pain. I’ve heard others say they do it just to know they’re still there. I’ve also heard of people doing it just to remind themselves of how useless, or worthless, or stupid they thought they were.
I guess you can say I did it for a bit of every reason.
I secretly didn’t want the bleeding to stop, but eventually, it began dying down. I put my arm under the tap, letting the cold water wash away the blood. I took a towel and washed the floor where the blood had fallen to make little patterns.
I was shaking. I took an aspirin to try and get rid of my head ache I was developing and looked in the mirror once more. There were black smudges running down my face from the eye makeup I cried off.
I moved my hair away from my face and turned on the cold water before opening the medicine cabinet and moving bottles out of the way looking for the familiar razorblade I kept hidden behind the Tylenol.
There was a quiet knock at the door.
“Go away,” I ordered loudly.
“Honey, can I come in,” my mother asked from the other side.
“No- just go away. Please,” I said and pulled out the blade.
She knocked a couple more times, trying to convince me to tell her what happened, and trying to get me to explain why I was late. She eventually left, knowing my juvenile routine. She thought I was just in here to settle down- she had no idea.
She knew once I settled down (or stopped hurting myself), I would come out and tell her what was wrong. I knew that wouldn’t be for a while.
After David died, which was pretty much when this all started, I sat in the bathroom for three hours with a bottle of overdue pills and the same razorblade I had in my hand now. I spent three hours debating whether or not to continue with my life. I don’t know how I debated to stay…
I looked in the mirror once more and took a heavy breath, looking down at my wrist as I pulled up my sleeve. I was getting sick of seeing the same old scars in the same place- I was going to make more. I looked at all the smooth clean areas around the scars and viciously ran the razorblade over it; making it not so perfect.
I smirk can across my face as I started listening to the pit-patter of blood drops on the linoleum floor and the stream of dark crimson liquid started down my wrist.
I’ve heard that people do it because they’d rather feel the physical pain than the emotional pain. I’ve heard others say they do it just to know they’re still there. I’ve also heard of people doing it just to remind themselves of how useless, or worthless, or stupid they thought they were.
I guess you can say I did it for a bit of every reason.
I secretly didn’t want the bleeding to stop, but eventually, it began dying down. I put my arm under the tap, letting the cold water wash away the blood. I took a towel and washed the floor where the blood had fallen to make little patterns.
I was shaking. I took an aspirin to try and get rid of my head ache I was developing and looked in the mirror once more. There were black smudges running down my face from the eye makeup I cried off.