Crash Into My Arms

Another knife in my hands, a stain that never comes off. Okay, so technically, it was a blade, a straight razor, to be more specific, I’d never much cared for small blades, they were pitiful. Miseria Cantare, my name could not have possibly suited me better, given the person whom I was to become, after the fucked up events that had taken place over the last few years.

My music was blaring, and this, to my mother, was just me “In one of my moods again.”

Tonight, like many nights, I worried that someone might knock on my bathroom door. This was just a regular occurrence for me, sitting on the cold tiled floor, turning the blade over in my hands, fooling myself into believing I was actually giving some thought at how this would possibly make things any better, when inevitably, I’d end up slicing through my own skin anyway.

The music served it’s purpose, amplifying my feelings a thousand times more. Had I had one lick of sense in my mind, it may have been enough emotional outlet to sing along. Singing songs that make you slit your wrists, fucking Emo Kid; that at least, was what they called me at school.

“Walked away, heard them say, poison hearts will never change, walk away, again.” I sang.

My voice was shockingly terrible, just deep & whiny, the kind of voice that would make anyone who heard it want to slit their wrists as much I did. But there was a particular reason I liked AFI, and that was that one of their song titles had my name in it; Miseria Cantare - The Beginning.

Obviously, Sing The Sorrow hadn’t come out until 2003, and I was seventeen, so my mother hadn’t gotten my name from the song. I still liked to pretend she had, though, and the kids at school who knew of the song, but hated AFI and saw it as an “Emo Band” would say to me “Your Mum knew you were gonna be a fucking Emo piece of shit, she must’ve gotten your name from that faggoty AFI song.”

“It’s hard to notice, gleaming from the sky, when you’re staring at the cracks; it’s hard to notice, what is passing by, with eyes lowered.”

I sure as hell felt those lyrics as I sang them; I was stuck in this shithole of a town with no escape, no refuge from the cold, dark streets of Newark, New Jersey. Even in the daylight, the town looked just as ugly, even if you were a stranger completely oblivious to what horror lied behind every corner, what fucked up people lived in this place, you could tell this place was a hellhole.

“Turned away, in disgrace, felt the chill upon my face, cooling from within.”

I was a disgrace, seventeen years old with no sense of direction, no hope of a stable future. A child who had until three years ago been the happiest girl on earth, who loved pop music and dressed in only the brightest of colours. Back then I was social, I had friends, I had some chance at a future.

But then my friends betrayed me, boys broke my heart; sure, every girl goes through that kinda thing in her life. But when one stupid mistake resulted in you being called a stalker everywhere you went, by people you didn’t even know, and you had nobody to turn to, no shoulder to cry on, just yourself, that’s when it really fucks you up.

But hey, this happens all the time, and I can’t help but think I’ll die alone. I was worth nothing, nobody cared for me, and even my own fucking family treated me like vermin. I disgusted people, they all loathed me, and they all tormented me, their ugly faces staring me down everywhere I went.

Adolescent suicide; seemed like a good way to go. But I was gutless, I hadn’t done it yet, but I would, one day, hopefully someday soon, I wanted out of this meaningless life, it held nothing for me, and no-one would miss me.

I winced at the pain, re-opening the scab that had formed over where I’d cut last time, knowing that doing this continuously would leave scars should I ever stop cutting, which seemed like it would never happen, I was much too broken to stop now.

I watched as the blood rolled down my wrist, exhaling deeply, feeling some kind of mentally-fueled form of release from my problems, and with hands stained red, I rose from the floor and washed the razor first before my own wrist, and wrapped it up in a bandage.

Mum had no idea I did this, nobody did, and I doubted anybody would care. It was my own filthy little secret, probably about the only secret I had these days, with how many people liked to use my personal shit for their own entertainment.

I unlocked the door and walked back into my bedroom, turning off the stereo before getting under the covers on my bed, wrapping myself in my quilt, and cuddling my pillow. I leaned over and tapped my touch lamp, and then I was enveloped in darkness.

Quiet now, yet somehow soothing. But even in darkness, my sanctuary, I felt alone, and scared. I clung to my pillow tight, all the feelings escalating once again, and cried myself to sleep. A few hours later I tossed and turned and thrashed about, moaning with despair, for even in my dreams, I was tormented…