It's What Makes Me, Me

It was happening, again. Just like it had the other times. I knew what was in store for me, depression, loneliness and desperation.
Why do people always push me too far??
Salty tears streamed down my face, dancing their way to the floor, adrenaline surging through my body as the blade repeatedly sliced neat lines up the length of my arm masking the pain. Fresh ribbons of blood seeping through my tanned skin hid the fading scars of my previous actions. I was crazed. Transfixed at the thought of carrying on. It had to be done. What would my parents say if they knew? My little stress relief was now my obsession, consuming all my thoughts, all of the time. This had become my little secret. It was mine and mine alone. It was easy to delude people into thinking I was normal and OK. Long sleeves and bracelets, barriers to defend my secret. With a smile painted on my face no one suspected. I knew it was wrong but I had to. It was forbidden which just gave me more of a personal high. A few more and I'd be done.
My name is Lexii. I have long black hair, lightly tanned skin and large brown eyes that conveyed no messages; I had learned to turn off my emotions, with a past like mine I had to. As painful memories surged to the fore-front of my mind I lost concentration, pushing the blade in deeper than I'd planned. Holding the cloth firmly to my arm, the blood slowly trickled to a stop. Shit, how was I going to hide this? Small scars I could conceal but this one was too deep.
I was alone, I always had been.
Even my parents had wanted nothing to do with me, leaving me to fend for myself. My mother, the more loving of my parents was small and fragile. Her long blonde hair fell in large curls over her shoulders, the innocent blue eyes showing so much pain and anguish at the hands of my abusive father, the memories of his glare, the one that bore straight through us like we were nothing. My father was uncaring and self obsessed with large built shoulders and enough force in one punch to dent a car, which on many occasions he did.
To this day my mother's death still influenced my behavior. I didn't allow myself to become near to any one because my mother was killed by the person she loved and trusted most in the world. She lay there left to die by the one person who was supposed to look after her. Her ruby blood pooled around her as it continued oozing out of the stab wound in her abdomen. Her once white dress stained crimson. Confused, alone and injured. This was her favorite day a dream that quickly turned into a nightmare, their wedding anniversary. Questions swirling in her mind stuck like glue that she was unable to forget. What had I done to deserve this? How much longer would I survive?, and finally in her dying moment she thought of me, remembering she was not alone and wondered what would happen to me after she was gone, but it was to late she could have no influence good or bad on me any more.
The sirens, lights flashing and people shouting deafened me but then I broke, allowing myself to mourn my mother she hadn't been a bad women just weak and unable to look after herself let alone a child, I accepted it wasn't her fault but she would never get to know that now. I promised myself and her memory that I wouldn't be like her I would be strong, independent and let no one hurt me, physically.
This is my life all the bad and the unbelievable experiences, but I wouldn't change a thing.