Stories In Scars
It's Just A Dream, It's Just A Dream... Right?
I’m sitting in a room of white. All white. White walls, white floor, white door, no windows. It’s just me. Me and my blade. Tracing the veins down my arm, blood starts to pour. My other arm. Now my legs. All over the walls I smear my blood. The red, hot, beautiful blood. Cutting, deeper and deeper. I black out. Oh god, I’m, I’m, I’m ---
I sit straight up in bed, gasping for air. “It was only a dream,” I tell myself, “Only a dream.”
I, I can’t do this. The last time I cut was over a year ago. I can’t cut. I promised myself I wouldn’t. But, the dream was so, so real.
Looking at my arms, I see pink marks tracing my veins. I must have scratched myself in my sleep. Dammit. I need this. I need to cut.
I pick up my phone and dial the only person who would understand.
“Ryan. Could you come over?” I ask, almost crying.
“Yeah, of course. Are you okay?” he asks, truely worried.
“I, I don’t know,” I mange to get out. And with that, I hang up.
He knocks on my door, and I let him in.
“Sweetie, you don’t look too good. What’s the matter?”
I tell him about the dream.
“I’ve had those before too, Grey. You can do this. I know you can. You need to. For you. And me.”
We sit on my sofa, me in his arms, and for once in my life, I feel safe. No one, not even myself, can hurt me.
“Ryan, I need to take a shower before we go.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling up to coming?”
“Yeah. I’m okay now. Now that you’re here.”
In the shower, I start singing my heart out. Music has always been there for me. It’s always brought me back up when I was down. And now, at this time, I really didn’t care who heard.
I got dressed in jeans, a Morphine Generation hoodie, and my Chucks, and we head out the door.
I sit straight up in bed, gasping for air. “It was only a dream,” I tell myself, “Only a dream.”
I, I can’t do this. The last time I cut was over a year ago. I can’t cut. I promised myself I wouldn’t. But, the dream was so, so real.
Looking at my arms, I see pink marks tracing my veins. I must have scratched myself in my sleep. Dammit. I need this. I need to cut.
I pick up my phone and dial the only person who would understand.
“Ryan. Could you come over?” I ask, almost crying.
“Yeah, of course. Are you okay?” he asks, truely worried.
“I, I don’t know,” I mange to get out. And with that, I hang up.
He knocks on my door, and I let him in.
“Sweetie, you don’t look too good. What’s the matter?”
I tell him about the dream.
“I’ve had those before too, Grey. You can do this. I know you can. You need to. For you. And me.”
We sit on my sofa, me in his arms, and for once in my life, I feel safe. No one, not even myself, can hurt me.
“Ryan, I need to take a shower before we go.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling up to coming?”
“Yeah. I’m okay now. Now that you’re here.”
In the shower, I start singing my heart out. Music has always been there for me. It’s always brought me back up when I was down. And now, at this time, I really didn’t care who heard.
I got dressed in jeans, a Morphine Generation hoodie, and my Chucks, and we head out the door.