My 30 Day Challenge

Why the hell was I here?

I’d just woken up in a weird bed that’s tilted at an uncomfortable angle, under really thin sheets on a cold night. There were several tubes coming out of my arms, which were covered in bandages.

I remembered now.

***

I’d had a shit day. Worse than usual. The guys at school had done their best, and then some. I could barely walk home. I was fairly sure a couple of my ribs were broken. The pictures would be circulating around by text in a while, so everyone could laugh at how weak I was. Am.

My parents weren't home - they never were. I hadn't seen my mom for days, my dad since I was 5. Mom was out working, and then wouldn't be home till gone midnight.

I let myself in, not bothering to shut the door. I didn't care what happened anymore. Someone could come rob us and I’d probably direct them to the most expensive shit.

I headed straight for the liquor cabinet, fully stocked for when we had guests, as my mom didn’t drink. None of it looked particularly strong, which was exactly what I needed. Searching hard enough, I found an almost full bottle of vodka right at the back. Grabbing it, I headed upstairs, grabbing my razor out of my room before heading into my bathroom.

Taking off my shirt and jeans, I stood in front if the mirror in just my boxers. I stared at the cuts and scars. Some new, some old, some almost faded. Those were the ones I went over so I could keep them. Splodges of blue and purple littered my torso and face, and my ribs stuck out like I’d been starved. I supposed I had been starved; I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.

I was disgusting.

Kellin Quinn, the gay boy, the faggot, the weird kid, the depressed freak, the psychopath, the one with mental problems.

The words covered my body, etched in by my silver gleaming friend.

Freak. Shitty. Loser. Lame. Faggot. Lazy. Scared. Weird. Stupid. Crazy.

Alone.

That one word was everywhere; my ankles, hips, neck, arms, fingers all screamed that I had no one, proudly displaying my solitude.

The tears slipped down my cheek, one by one, slowly turning into waterfalls, a torrent of sorrow and hatred painting my cheeks. I wasn’t good enough for anyone.

My mom doesn’t want me - half the time I think she forgets I exist. I don’t have any other family that I know of; my mom was an only child and no one will tell me or can tell me anything about my dad. Like I would want to know.

I didn’t have any friends; Laura and Jackson hadn’t spoken to me since I came out. No one would associate themselves with me since I did. No one besides the school bullies, Mark and Tom, who spent every afternoon tormenting me.

I didn’t want to have to deal with this anymore.

I swallowed about half the vodka, wanting to be drunk at least once in my short and rather miserable life. It tasted so good. It tasted like I was finally fucking on my way out of here.

I picked up my razor, looking at it briefly. Thinking about how much it had been used over the last year.

Bringing it down to my right wrist, I slowly dragged it a couple of centimetres across. The red line started to form, and I smiled. And so it began.

I sped up, and went deeper. I covered my entire arm with deep cuts, then moved on to my left. This was harder, being that I was already left handed and my right arm was beginning to lose feeling.

Eventually, both my arms were steadily leaking blood, but it wasn’t enough, so I moved on to my legs. I got half way through my right leg before I started to feel dizzy; smiling, I continued.

***

I don’t remember passing out, but I did. I remember being happy that I was finally on my way out. I had thought I would for sure, that time.

I was tired, though, so I went back to sleep, knowing that if I was in a hospital, there would be no way out for a while. I dreamed of a way out, and I dreamed of going home so I could do the job properly.