Status: Ongoing
Seeking Solace
Prologue
Like every morning, my alarm wakes me up, and I get up to go to the bathroom to get ready for school.
This is where my self-destruction begins.
I start with my arms, pinching the raised flesh until my skin bursts, and a single drop of blood blossoms, a crimson pearl on pale, white skin that hardly ever sees the sun. The sun I see is through a closed window, a briefly opened door. The TV. The computer. Frozen pictures in a comic book.
I cover my whole left arm with little pearls of blood and watch them bleed until the tiny wounds clot, and all that’s left is the sore, red raised bump of skin, that will crumble into a scab, another scar, another dead part of skin that would be picked again, exposing another vulnerable patch to be torn at…
The scars cover my whole body now. My arms, across my chest, my torso, my thighs. I’ve torn my fingers and wrists almost to shreds. The freshly picked wounds on my arms sting a little, tiny pulses here and there that I’ve become used to. That I have become…addicted to.
I step into the shower like I always do after I pull my skin apart, water already warm after being on for way too long. I stand in the spray, watch the last few drops of blood wash away and continue with my shower.
When I step out again, I take a minute to prod at the still raw bumps on my skin, as if they would have disappeared with the steam from the shower. I look at my work…not with pride exactly, more like a morbid interest. Like staring a beautifully elaborate painting of a dead body; the agony on the corpses face, it’s torso torn to shreds and still bleeding. This is my self-destruction. The punishment I inflict on myself for living. I didn’t really want to do it- my fingers, my nails just find a patch of skin to pick at until the skin is slowly peeled off, and the pain shoots through my nerves for a split second afterwards….
I always try to avoid the mirror in front of me, because that never helps me to stop what I’m doing, no matter how many times I tell myself that I should stop. Every time I get out of the shower, that mirror is right there. Showing everything I don’t want to see. Scars I don’t want to remember through the cold glass of the window. The face that I see is face that I hate, a body that I hate even more. It is a face that I can never attach to myself, which means I will forever wander around in a state of false identity, imagining a face in my head that isn’t the one sewn to my skull with threads of skin I wish I could undo.
I want to tear myself apart, slowly, so that no one notices until it’s too late. I want to fade away, but I’ve already faded so much, who will notice when I’m gone? Who will remember that kid, the quiet one that never did anything, except be the group bitch for a bunch of ‘friends’ who smashed him down every fucking day?
So it’s better to just end the short life I’ve had, a life that should have been given to someone else, because I’ve never deserved it.
I look at the person in the mirror, and at this point, I’m too lost to really think about what I’ve done to myself. There’s just this one simple notion floating around my head, and I’m so close to just taking it and running with it.
I sigh and pull a towel from the rack beside the shower and wrap it around my waist.
I decide next week is my best bet.
No one gives a shit about my birthday any more anyway.
This is where my self-destruction begins.
I start with my arms, pinching the raised flesh until my skin bursts, and a single drop of blood blossoms, a crimson pearl on pale, white skin that hardly ever sees the sun. The sun I see is through a closed window, a briefly opened door. The TV. The computer. Frozen pictures in a comic book.
I cover my whole left arm with little pearls of blood and watch them bleed until the tiny wounds clot, and all that’s left is the sore, red raised bump of skin, that will crumble into a scab, another scar, another dead part of skin that would be picked again, exposing another vulnerable patch to be torn at…
The scars cover my whole body now. My arms, across my chest, my torso, my thighs. I’ve torn my fingers and wrists almost to shreds. The freshly picked wounds on my arms sting a little, tiny pulses here and there that I’ve become used to. That I have become…addicted to.
I step into the shower like I always do after I pull my skin apart, water already warm after being on for way too long. I stand in the spray, watch the last few drops of blood wash away and continue with my shower.
When I step out again, I take a minute to prod at the still raw bumps on my skin, as if they would have disappeared with the steam from the shower. I look at my work…not with pride exactly, more like a morbid interest. Like staring a beautifully elaborate painting of a dead body; the agony on the corpses face, it’s torso torn to shreds and still bleeding. This is my self-destruction. The punishment I inflict on myself for living. I didn’t really want to do it- my fingers, my nails just find a patch of skin to pick at until the skin is slowly peeled off, and the pain shoots through my nerves for a split second afterwards….
I always try to avoid the mirror in front of me, because that never helps me to stop what I’m doing, no matter how many times I tell myself that I should stop. Every time I get out of the shower, that mirror is right there. Showing everything I don’t want to see. Scars I don’t want to remember through the cold glass of the window. The face that I see is face that I hate, a body that I hate even more. It is a face that I can never attach to myself, which means I will forever wander around in a state of false identity, imagining a face in my head that isn’t the one sewn to my skull with threads of skin I wish I could undo.
I want to tear myself apart, slowly, so that no one notices until it’s too late. I want to fade away, but I’ve already faded so much, who will notice when I’m gone? Who will remember that kid, the quiet one that never did anything, except be the group bitch for a bunch of ‘friends’ who smashed him down every fucking day?
So it’s better to just end the short life I’ve had, a life that should have been given to someone else, because I’ve never deserved it.
I look at the person in the mirror, and at this point, I’m too lost to really think about what I’ve done to myself. There’s just this one simple notion floating around my head, and I’m so close to just taking it and running with it.
I sigh and pull a towel from the rack beside the shower and wrap it around my waist.
I decide next week is my best bet.
No one gives a shit about my birthday any more anyway.