Bent

That was the night my strength broke, the day misery took over. It only took me a few minutes to get to the kitchen. A knife lay on the counter, metal gleaming like it was tempting me. It was a steak knife, one of the sharpest we owned. My fingers shook slightly as I picked it up, holding the blade to the flesh right below my elbow. For the first time, I cut myself. So deeply I gasped, the knife biting into my soft skin.

But oh, did it feel wonderful, focusing on something other than my own thoughts, the wavery, dizzy feeling as the pain reached its highest. I may have done too much. The lines seemed so small, long lines in a neat row up my arm. They were white welts at first, but then the bleeding started, thick maroon liquid gushing down my arm. I tossed the knife away and pulled my sleeve down, feeling numb now. I sat on the couch and ignored how wet the inside of my sleeve felt.

I went back on Facebook, clicking away the page that had caused it all. Lincoln had replied to my acceptance. ‘Hi, thanks for accepting me!’ ‘Uh, you’re welcome. Do I know you?’ ‘I don’t think so, unless you’ve ever been to New York!’ ‘I haven’t, but why’d you friend me?’ I expected her to answer ‘social networking’ but instead she replied,

‘I randomly found your profile, and you seem really nice, so I friended you.’ ‘Kay, thanks.  I’m Willa, obviously.’ ‘You can call me Linc. How’re you doing?’ I was about to say ‘good’, but I paused for a second and replied, ‘Bad, very bad.’ She sent me a sad face, ‘Why bad?’ Can you blame me? I had no one else to talk to. ‘Some people in my school set up a page about hating me, and, well, I did something.’ When I checked on my arm it had mostly stopped bleeding, but the cuts were red and puffy. ‘What’d you do?’ ‘Cut myself.’ She took a few minutes to reply, so I figured she didn’t want to talk with me anymore. I logged off and went to bed, crying myself to sleep again.