Maybe I Will

I went off the the peaceful seclusion of my bedroom, my laptop held in the palms of my hands. I was currently vlogging at the moment on my YouTube channel, Hannasaurus. My long, blonde hair cascading down my front as I walked, curled as perfectly flowing as it could possibly be. Was I a natural blonde? Nope. Did I like being blonde? Yes. The ends of my hair came to just about a millimeter above my belly button. The blonde perfectly contrasted with my carefully chosen outfit, a neon green ribbed tank top, and my black mesh shorts, which ended at about the middle of my tanned, skinny yet muscular, thigh. I walked into my royal blue bedroom and shut the door behind me with my foot. I placed my white Mac laptop on my bedside desk and sat down on my cushiony mattress, its white and purple checkered comforter coating the squishy thing.

"Well, you guys, that is definitely NOT the proper way to make a milkshake. Joey is a liar," I yelled that last part with a chuckle. He yelled some sort of unknown remark back and I shook my head.

"But anyway, time to do some hopefully legal advertisement!" I flashed the camera a quick thumbs-up as I prepared my speech. "So, tomorrow there's going to be a YouTube meet up here in Los Angeles, and anyone can come! I'm aware that this is a global thing, so it must be a big freaking deal. But, if you guys are near the LA area, come and give me a visit for some Hannasaurus hugs!" I outstretched my arms and gave the biggest, cheesiest smile I could. "I think fifteen minutes is long enough for a fail of a milkshake. Bye!"

I did my usual sign off, kissing the camera. I turned it off and shut my laptop down for a while.

Once I got all of the chocolate milkshake remains out of my hair, I walked out to the kitchen of my apartment, only to find Joey freaking Graceffa, my best friend (or one of them, at least) sitting on one of the twisty bar stools, spinning around like a five year old. Although this seems childish, I must admit. It's pretty damn fun.

"Well, that could have gone better," I said, eyeing up the chocolate splatters on my walls, too high for my short 5'3" to reach. "You have to clean the parts I can't reach, you know."

I nudged him on the shoulder. "Fine, I'm going, I'm going," he said. I tossed him a wet rag. "Shoot girl, you have an arm on you." Oh great, the southern accent was back.

I giggled and shooed him off to wipe up the walls.

Yes, I do seem extremely happy now. A pretty, mature (physically) twenty one year old girl. Lots to live for out in LA. But my life was never really this good before. There was a sort of...dark, I guess you could say, period of my life. I call it "living hell", but most people refer to it as childhood. My parents were very psychotic, to put it plain and simple. They always came home either high or drunk, and would slap me around a LOAD for their own entertainment. By thirteen, I started cutting out of sorrow and pain. I was sick of this twisted game by the time I was seventeen, so I dropped out of high school and left my bone chilling hometown to a warm, inviting Los Angeles. I still do cut, because, things like that never go away. I've learned to keep it to myself, however, so I put on a happy face and be this perky girl I'm mostly not.

"Bye," Joey called to me after he finished, pulling me out of my horrific memoirs, and giving me a small hug before walking out of my apartment.

The pain was really getting to me today. All of the memories from my past childhood were going through my head, each one a separate shard of glass piercing me with every thought. I puffed out a deep breath of air and locked my apartment door before walking into my brightly lit bathroom. I shut and locked the door, my feet guiding me straight to the medicine cabinet. I popped it open, and inside was my escape. A box of razor blades. I pulled one out of the box and sat on the white linoleum floor. I pressed my back against the wall, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. The razor blade fell out of my hand as I did so, so I took this as an opportunity. It's been two months since I cut. Should I go for three? Should I fight through the pain instead of letting it pull me into yet another pool of depression? Should I just do one cut, get it over with? I picked the latter and took a deep breath, releasing my legs from my arms' grasp. They were now set in front of me on the floor, out straight. I picked the razor blade back up and twirled it around gently between my fingers, letting the cool metal calm me down slightly. I was finally going to release my pain.

Once I felt prepared enough, I took the blade tighter in my hands and slowly pressed it to my skin. My wrist, to be exact. The crimson water slowly seeped out of my cut as I pulled away the blade. Sure I felt pain, but I more so felt release. This was my outlet. I didn't vent about my problems, I just kept them to myself and cut.

I wiped away the remainder of the blood from my wrist and the blade, throwing the blade back into the cabinet. I rinsed my wrist one last time, feeling a rush of icy water on it. Some even seeped through the cut, cold coursing through my veins.

The old me was back, and although I didn't want it to, I was almost positive it was here to stay.