I Was Ripped Apart But Held By Glue

ONE

The sharp razorblade easily cuts through the thin flesh of my wrist and God, there are no words to describe just how good this feels. All of my emotional pains have to make place for my physical pains. It’s exactly what I need right now. This is the only way I can get rid of the emotional pain in my heart. I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but like I said, I don’t know another way to escape from my stabbing emotions. It has also become an addiction to me. Once I started cutting myself a few weeks ago, I haven’t stopped doing it. Every time I do, the image of her is projected on my retina. Sometimes the image looks so real that I think she’s really there. Then I reach out to touch her; to hug her, but I’m trying to hug air. I try to hug a memory that I dread thinking about but at the same time don’t want to forget either.

The blood coming from the wound slowly drips down into the plain white sink and it’s such a beautiful thing to look at. The dark-red colour of my blood looks as if it is eating the white colour of the sink. So goddamn gorgeous. But just like all the beauty in the world, it has to be destroyed. She was destroyed as well. By me.

I open the water tap, letting the water flush away my sinful deed. Then I keep my bleeding wrist underneath the icy cold water to stop the bleeding. I don’t want to bleed to death. No, I just need to feel this pain in order to remain sane. This has absolutely nothing to do with death. Not yet, that is. Maybe one day, my life will get so miserable that there will be no other escape, but I’m not at that point yet. There are still a few things in my life that are worth living for. A few.

When I hear footsteps nearing the bathroom, I quickly close the water tap and hastily wrap one of the fluffy white hotel towels around my wrist to cover up what I’ve done. I’m just on time with hiding my bleeding wrist when Brendon opens the bathroom door. I turn around, my back towards him and act as if I’m looking for my make-up remover in my little –or not so little- make-up bag.

“Is everything okay? You’ve been in here for ages,” Brendon says, standing in the doorframe. I don’t answer his question but just shrug my shoulders. “Why is your hand wrapped in a towel? It looks a bit silly, doesn’t it?” he asks, chuckling softly. I turn around to look at him and shrug my shoulders again. His eyes travel from my arm to my face and then back to my arm; then, they fall on the sink behind me. His eyes widen and I anxiously follow his gaze to discover that there are still a few drops of blood lingering on the edge of the sink. Fuck.

“I accidentally cut myself,” I lie before he can say something about it and I act as if nothing’s wrong. Hah. Nothing wrong. That must be the biggest lie ever.
“Let me see,” Brendon says, worry clouding his entire facial expression. He takes a step closer to me and stretches his arm, trying to take away the towel, but I jerk my hand away before he can.
“I’m fine, it’s just a little cut,” I tell him with an emotionless expression. God, it’s almost scary to see how easy it has become for me to lie. It’s all I ever do lately.
“Ryan, don’t bullshit me, there’s blood coming through that towel,” he says, his shaky hand pointing at the towel that’s wrapped around half of my arm. It now has a dark red spot on it. Goddammit. Fuck this guy for interfering with my goddamn life.
“I’m fine, Brendon,” I hiss and push him away with my free hand. He stumbles a bit backwards, struggling to keep his balance and then he falls, banging his head against the frame of the bathroom door. Shit.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” I mutter, kneeling down in front of Brendon. I’m such an ass. Before I can react, Brendon yanks the towel away from my arm, revealing my bloody wrist.

“Ryan, that is not an accidental cut,” Brendon states matter-of-factly, looking down at the bloody mess I like to call my wrist. Underneath the blood are hidden a few more cuts from my previous encounters with my precious razor blade.
“It’s nothing,” I mumble and stand up again. I stroll over to the sink and open the taps again, holding my bleeding wrist underneath it. The water washes away the blood and for a few seconds, the water that flows into the sink has an orange-red colour. So beautiful.

“Oh, right, so you pushed me on the floor for nothing?” he asks, standing back up and rubbing the back of his head where he hit the doorframe. Damn me for hurting him. I’m such a loser.
“Just stay out of this, Bren. It’s none of your business,” I tell him and close the water tap again. Then I take my toilet bag off the little shelf and start searching for a bandage. After I cut myself for the first time, I went to the pharmacist’s for a private stock of bandages. When I have found what I was looking for, I clumsily try to put the bandage around my wrist, but after a couple of failed tries, I angrily throw the stupid little thing down on the black and white tiled floor.
“Shitty thing!” I curse loudly and then I burst out into tears. I’m worthless; I can’t even put a fucking bandage around my own arm. How pathetic is that?

“Hey, don’t cry,” Brendon shushes and lays his arms around my neck, pulling me into a tight hug. I keep on crying at my own pathetic being as Brendon holds me and tries to soothe me. He strokes my hair and whispers some incoherent things in my ear. I haven’t cried in months. The cutting was my alternative to crying because strong people don’t cry; they have better ways to deal with their emotions. Have you spotted the lie in that? No? It’s a big one, though. Here it is: I’m everything but strong. I’m probably the weakest person you will ever meet. You’d think that because I’m a famous rock star, that I’m happy and satisfied with my life but nothing is less true. If I was a strong person, she would still be around.

When I have finally stopped crying, Brendon lets go of me and bends down, picking up the bandage that I threw on the floor.
“Sit down,” he mutters, gently pushing me down on the edge of the big, white bathtub. In less than a minute, he manages to wrap the bandage around my wrist, covering the wound. “Now show me your other arm,” he says, worriedly looking me in the eye. At first, I don’t want to, but then again, what’s the point in hiding something he already knows? And I don’t want to put up an argument with Brendon either, he deserves much better than that.

“Why are you doing this?” Brendon asks, holding my hand and looking at the now revealed wounds. Whenever I am around someone, you will never see me in a shirt; I’ll always be wearing something with long sleeves to cover up my wounds. I shrug my shoulders once more. He wouldn’t understand anyway. If I tell him how I feel, he’ll probably think I’m a wuss, that I should grow some balls and get over this fucking thing. Or worse, he’ll hate me for what I did to her. “I can understand if you don’t want to talk about it right now, but just know that I’ll always be here for you, okay?” he says after a long silence and rubs his thumb over the back of my hand.
“Thanks,” I reply, managing a miniscule smile for him. Then he puts his arm around my thin waist –I think I have lost a few pounds in the past few weeks- and presses a small kiss against my cheek. During the short second that his full lips are pressed against my cheek, I feel genuinely happy and a warm, tingling feeling spreads throughout my entire body. I smile again. Wow. Two smiles on one evening? That must be one of my records. But when Brendon’s lips leave again, the warm feeling disappears and my insides feel like they’re about to freeze. My smile quickly fades and I let out a long sigh.

“Let’s go to bed,” Brendon says, his arm still wrapped around my waist, and leads me towards the other room. After giving me another kiss to say goodnight, he crawls into his bed and pulls the covers up to his chin. I awkwardly stand next to my own bed for a little while and stare at Brendon’s lying figure. I don’t want to sleep alone. I know it’s pathetic, but I need some sort of affection to confirm that I’m not entirely useless and that there is someone that cares about me. Or at least pretends to, to cheer me up a bit.

“Brendon?” I ask after a short minute. Brendon shifts around in his bed and then looks up at me. He looks me straight in the eye and nods, knowing exactly what I’m thinking and what I need. He pulls the sheets from the bed a bit and then he moves to the right, making room for me. Without saying one word, I get into the bed and let Brendon hold me.
“Good night, Ryan,” he whispers and kisses the back of my head. I don’t reply but just close my eyes and enjoy the closeness I have been wanting to feel for months. I think I might actually get some sleep tonight, without having to deal with taunting nightmares. After a few minutes, I realise that it was a wrong assumption.

Once everything gets quiet and all I can hear are mine and Brendon’s breathing, I start thinking. I start thinking of what I have just done and guilt starts to come to me. It only takes mere seconds of silence and I’m crying again. It’s not that I feel guilty towards myself for the self harm. Hell no. But I feel guilty towards Brendon. He shouldn’t be dealing with this. Not with me. He deserves so, so much better than a crying wreck like me in his bed.

I sob violently and throw the bed sheets off of me. I better get into my own goddamn bed before I rob more of Brendon’s sleep.
“Ryan,” he whispers, laying his hand on my shoulder and preventing me from getting out of his bed. He sits up and wraps both his arms around my chest from behind. “Why are you leaving?” he asks, resting his forehead against the back of my head.
“You don’t need me here,” I mutter in reply and try to get away again, but Brendon won’t let go of me. Stupid, stupid boy, he doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into. I’m a murderer for God’s sake.
“I do. I need you to be okay, so stay here, please,” he replies and with one arm, he pulls the sheet back over me. I sigh deeply, but give in and lay down again, still crying. Brendon wipes away a few of my tears with his thumb and I can’t help but feel good whenever he touches me. But after feeling good, I always feel guilty. I don’t deserve his affection; I’m just a waste of time. I wish I had my razor right now; it’s the only thing that makes me feel better and doesn’t make me feel guilty. Just one cut, that’s all I need for now. Maybe I should just go to the bathroom and quickly do it… just a tiny one. Brendon won’t notice.

I wait until I’m sure that Brendon is asleep to get out of the bed. When I hear him snoring, I carefully disentangle myself from his arms and quietly make my way through the dark, towards the bathroom. Only after I have closed the bathroom door behind me, I switch on the light. I fish the razor that I used earlier today out of my toilet bag and stare at the little but yet very powerful object. Good thing that Brendon didn’t think of taking the razor away from me. Otherwise I’d have to do this with a less appropriate object.

I catch a quick reflection of my own scared looking eyes in the razor. Then I sigh and bite my lower lip. I can’t do this. It’s wrong, especially with Brendon sleeping only a few feet away from here. He trusts me that I won’t do this again and I don’t want to be a disappointment to him. He might drop me if he knows I’m a hopeless case. I drop the razor on the floor, fresh tears forming in my eyes. I hate my life and there’s nothing I can do to make things better again. It’s my own fault, though. I created mess I am in myself and now I just have to pay for it.

My heart skips a beat when the bathroom door opens and I’m met with a tired-looking Brendon. He stares at me for a little while and then he tilts his head the right a bit.
“Ryan,” he whispers, keeping his eyes on me. Fuck.
“I-I… I didn’t,” I stutter, looking at him through blurred eyes. Please don’t let him walk away on me. I am going to need him if I want to stop hurting myself; he’s the only person that has some grip on me. I need him. I look away from him and down at the floor, where I dropped the razor only a few minutes ago. It’s so tempting to pick it up and just do it. Create that wonderful pain; get that emotional pain out of me, even if it’s just for a little while. I sniff once and then I tear my eyes away from the razor and push past Brendon, rushing out of the bathroom.