Nobody is going to come

I toss and turn in my bed, my chest tight, and my body heaving with sobs. I’m hot, far too hot. I feel penned in, suffocated. In an inexplicable moment of terror, I throw back my covers and sit bolt upright. The cool air offers little comfort to my sweating skin, and I scramble to push away the last of my covers. My eyes slowly adjust to the dimness that engulfs them. My room is dark at night, save the pale moonlight that comes in from a single window. But even that light looks wrong tonight; too cold, too uncaring. Abruptly, I turn my head away. There is a dull ache in my chest, constricting my breath. Raggedly, I try to suck in air, desperately panicking. My breathing speeds up as hot, wet, salty tears roll from my eyes and down my cheeks. A single one drops onto my lips, and I can taste it. I can taste my sorrow. Yet still I struggle to breathe. Arms come from behind me and wrap around me. I turn around to see who is embracing me, but there is no one there. They are my own arms, my own hands; and the only comfort I will receive. This is not a rare occurrence; often every night I am up like this, scared and alone. But I have been like this for two years, and I know how to cope.

Blindly, I stumble out of bed and open my drawers, careful not to make a sound. Hidden in an old pencil case lies my knife. Its long silver blade shines brightly in the ashen moonlight as I pull it free. It is clean; I always make sure of that. I sink slowly to the floor, my back uncomfortable against a radiator. It’s stone cold, so why do I still feel so hot? Shaking, I take my knife and make quick clean cuts all over my wrist. The pain is absolute, and it overwhelms me. It’s all I can feel, and suddenly the emptiness is gone, replaced by a sharp throbbing in my left arm. I keep on going, making cuts on top of cuts, on top of scars, not caring of anything but the wonderful pain. But I have to stop in the end, and as I do, I look down at my arm. Blood is just starting to break free, but I’m prepared for that; I mop it up with an old tee-shirt that I keep especially for this very reason. My skin is red and inflamed, still weeping blood. Slowly, the jagged pain is replaced with a dull twinge when I move. Cradling my arm, I awkwardly clamber back into bed and pull my duvet up over me. Closing my eyes, I attempt to sleep. I don’t even try to cover up the trickles of blood that come from my arm. After all; nobody is going to come.