I Was Just Looking For A Way Out...
Chapter 29
I’m walking back to my room to begin with, but then I see something, an opportunity swaying oh so gently back and forth.
The door, the one with the big black letters saying “MAINTENANCE AUTHORIZED PERSONAL ONLY” even though it’s always locked so only authorized personal can get in anyway; it’s just a little bit open, a broom handle acting as an accidental doorstop.
I peek in, and it’s almost like it’s meant for me to find. Laying in a box right on top and freshly opened, a package of 3 box cutters, only one missing. Even better is that they’re the nice ones, the kind that have a replaceable razorblade inside, so you don’t have to ditch the entire thing when it dulls. Sitting in the hastily torn open packaging, so obvious and perfect it has to be for me, is the package of razorblade replacements. I pick it up, there has to be 10 or 12…. So I pocket 2. On my way out I pick up the broom and close the door.
When I get to my room, it’s straight into the shower, just like old times. I lay a towel down in front of the shower curtain and I crank the water heat to too hot and wait until I see steam. I strip down, putting the razors on the counter. As soon as I’m nude I grab the tiny silver blades and get in. The second I’m in, it’s too hot, but I stand and bear the scalding water for a few seconds while my body gets used to it, each muscle clenched and flexed in spite of itself. Once it’s finally somewhat comfortable I set the razorblades down on that little shelf made for your soap, and I start to jump in place a little. Call it stupid but I always feel like it helps the blood circulate better.
I pick up one of the razors and look down at my leg, right in the area that boxers should normally cover, but would still be safe from television censorship.
Ignoring the ugly fatty state of my body, the complete lack of muscle, and the general lack of any other good looks, this is probably the biggest issue I’ll ever have with letting someone see me naked. The scars that stand out, red or pink and raised up like brail ever after the years they’ve had to go away; years that I’ve begged and pleaded for them to leave even as I made ore. I can’t get naked because I’m wearing the evidence of every self loathing feeling I’ve ever had.
Now, looking down, I take my left hand and move it down to the flesh on my legs. I take two fingers, my pointer and thumb, and press them against the skin. Then I push them apart, stretching the area tight. With the right hand, I bring down the razor and gingerly place it on my upper thigh, on the tightened area of skin. With just the sharp pointed corner I dig in and slide it across, fast, because from experience I know that my reflexes from the pain makes me lighten the pressure if I try to go slow. I do it again, and again, and again, each time hurting less then the time before as I get used to it and the hot water runs over the fresh cuts.
“Why the fuck did it have to be me? Why did I have to be me? I couldn’t have been born anyone else!? I’m fat, I’m ugly, I’m stupid, I’m judgmental, I’m detached, I’m uncaring, I fucking hate me. Why do I even have to be alive? Why couldn’t my life have gone to some poor refugee who would actually appreciate it?” I’m talking to myself, to the god who probably only exists if I choose not to believe in him, to the heavens that are only there if I’m going to hell.
The blood doesn’t come out in a pretty little even stream like you’d imagine it would, it bubbles out in little globs, growing and growing until they burst. Ugly until they pop and then from the little streams you like to think of, until the burning water touches the area and washed it away to start as little bubbling balls again.
I’m cutting the other leg, each just looking slightly pink as the water constantly washed down, clearing away the blood that may surface. The floor looks brown as the dark red is mixed evenly into an excess of water.
I’m begging to die, begging to a god I don’t believe in, and if you hadn’t guessed already, I’m crying, because this is the only coping mechanism I know that doesn’t involve self medication, self pity and a complete breakdown.
“What’s the god damn point!? The life I’m living is pointless, I deserve to die just kill me! It’s got to be all the happy people involved in accidents, why can’t someone be drunk or asleep behind the wheel when I cross the street? Why do only the happy popular kids die? Just once let it be the depressed suicidal kid. Throw me a pity accident.” I say to the benevolent all loving wall, I pray to the shampoo bottle.
I turn off the water and grab a roll of toilet paper, letting it get wet in my hands, and I sit down on the towel out in front of the shower. I can’t dry off until the bleeding stops or I’ll turn the towels red, so I just sit there and dab off the blood that rises from the cuts in my leg. There must be 20 of them.
Jeremiah, or someone at least, knocks on the door and shakes the handle, but I just lay there and dab my eyes and legs as each in turn begins to fill up and overflow.
The door, the one with the big black letters saying “MAINTENANCE AUTHORIZED PERSONAL ONLY” even though it’s always locked so only authorized personal can get in anyway; it’s just a little bit open, a broom handle acting as an accidental doorstop.
I peek in, and it’s almost like it’s meant for me to find. Laying in a box right on top and freshly opened, a package of 3 box cutters, only one missing. Even better is that they’re the nice ones, the kind that have a replaceable razorblade inside, so you don’t have to ditch the entire thing when it dulls. Sitting in the hastily torn open packaging, so obvious and perfect it has to be for me, is the package of razorblade replacements. I pick it up, there has to be 10 or 12…. So I pocket 2. On my way out I pick up the broom and close the door.
When I get to my room, it’s straight into the shower, just like old times. I lay a towel down in front of the shower curtain and I crank the water heat to too hot and wait until I see steam. I strip down, putting the razors on the counter. As soon as I’m nude I grab the tiny silver blades and get in. The second I’m in, it’s too hot, but I stand and bear the scalding water for a few seconds while my body gets used to it, each muscle clenched and flexed in spite of itself. Once it’s finally somewhat comfortable I set the razorblades down on that little shelf made for your soap, and I start to jump in place a little. Call it stupid but I always feel like it helps the blood circulate better.
I pick up one of the razors and look down at my leg, right in the area that boxers should normally cover, but would still be safe from television censorship.
Ignoring the ugly fatty state of my body, the complete lack of muscle, and the general lack of any other good looks, this is probably the biggest issue I’ll ever have with letting someone see me naked. The scars that stand out, red or pink and raised up like brail ever after the years they’ve had to go away; years that I’ve begged and pleaded for them to leave even as I made ore. I can’t get naked because I’m wearing the evidence of every self loathing feeling I’ve ever had.
Now, looking down, I take my left hand and move it down to the flesh on my legs. I take two fingers, my pointer and thumb, and press them against the skin. Then I push them apart, stretching the area tight. With the right hand, I bring down the razor and gingerly place it on my upper thigh, on the tightened area of skin. With just the sharp pointed corner I dig in and slide it across, fast, because from experience I know that my reflexes from the pain makes me lighten the pressure if I try to go slow. I do it again, and again, and again, each time hurting less then the time before as I get used to it and the hot water runs over the fresh cuts.
“Why the fuck did it have to be me? Why did I have to be me? I couldn’t have been born anyone else!? I’m fat, I’m ugly, I’m stupid, I’m judgmental, I’m detached, I’m uncaring, I fucking hate me. Why do I even have to be alive? Why couldn’t my life have gone to some poor refugee who would actually appreciate it?” I’m talking to myself, to the god who probably only exists if I choose not to believe in him, to the heavens that are only there if I’m going to hell.
The blood doesn’t come out in a pretty little even stream like you’d imagine it would, it bubbles out in little globs, growing and growing until they burst. Ugly until they pop and then from the little streams you like to think of, until the burning water touches the area and washed it away to start as little bubbling balls again.
I’m cutting the other leg, each just looking slightly pink as the water constantly washed down, clearing away the blood that may surface. The floor looks brown as the dark red is mixed evenly into an excess of water.
I’m begging to die, begging to a god I don’t believe in, and if you hadn’t guessed already, I’m crying, because this is the only coping mechanism I know that doesn’t involve self medication, self pity and a complete breakdown.
“What’s the god damn point!? The life I’m living is pointless, I deserve to die just kill me! It’s got to be all the happy people involved in accidents, why can’t someone be drunk or asleep behind the wheel when I cross the street? Why do only the happy popular kids die? Just once let it be the depressed suicidal kid. Throw me a pity accident.” I say to the benevolent all loving wall, I pray to the shampoo bottle.
I turn off the water and grab a roll of toilet paper, letting it get wet in my hands, and I sit down on the towel out in front of the shower. I can’t dry off until the bleeding stops or I’ll turn the towels red, so I just sit there and dab off the blood that rises from the cuts in my leg. There must be 20 of them.
Jeremiah, or someone at least, knocks on the door and shakes the handle, but I just lay there and dab my eyes and legs as each in turn begins to fill up and overflow.