My Time

1 ~ The Beginning

Never in a million years, would I had expected to be alive, living past the age of 18. Never would I have thought that there was meaning, but here I stand, not happy but not sad. Simply existing. But you may be wondering, 'what happened?' Well, it all started a few years back. 

I watched in horror, as I looked at my reflection. Scars littered my body, self inflicted pain. No matter how much I tried to pull and squeeze at my body it wasn't enough. I wasn't enough. Fat. I was fat. It was all I was. I stand in the mirror, trying to pull out my flesh, because I, Hinata Shoyo am fat. 

I'm ugly. Ugly I say. Scars run down because I know that I am not good enough. I never will be good enough, why am I not good enough? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Why can't I just love myself? No matter how hard I try to get rid of my flesh and skin, it doesn't work. I stand there trying to remove it, squeezing, wondering what it would be like if I were dead. Why am I not dead?

Pale, hollowed out, there stood the petite orange-haired boy. You could practically see his bones, he was skinny enough to snap, as if he were a stick. His cheeks, hollow and sunken, ribcage sticking out, his weight was non-existent. But the demon in the mirror came behind him and told him he still wasn't enough. He wasn't enough, he was never enough. 

At this point in time, he really didn't care, because he was used to it. Used to being told he was ugly, fat, unworthy, not enough. So there he stood, in front of the mirror, tired, jittery, cold, hungry...at first he was hungry...but then he just got used to it. Filling his stomach up with water. The cool feeling of it slipping down his throat, how it coursed down and filled him up. It was enough, just enough to keep him satisfied. But he wasn't satisfied. He could never be satisfied. 

Warm crimson blood dripped from his fingers, as the blade dug deeper. His grip was deadly, but he couldn't feel it at all. He couldn't feel anything. Hinata stared at the blood, completely unfazed, watching it drip onto the ground. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. He watched it for what seemed like hours, blood pooling onto the hardwood floor of his bedroom. He opened his palm, revealing the blood-stained blade. 

I just needed to feel something. I had to feel something. Why can't I feel anything. I stared blankly at the blade in my hand. It was covered in blood, it was all covered in blood. My hand, the knife, the ground, my vision. It felt as if I was drowning in the crimson colour of my blood. But what I felt, what I felt....I didn't feel so I watched. I watched as the blood trickled onto the floor, staining the wooden floor. 

I unclenched my palm, only to see blood. But I still didn't feel anything. I was unfazed, empty, emotionless. I made my way to the bathroom, rinsing off my palm and blade. I traced my index finger over the open wound, blood slowly gushing out. There it was. The buzzing feeling in my palm. A tingling, stinging sensation. Something that I craved. I craved this feeling, hell I just wanted to feel something. 

Hinata began to laugh hysterically, as he watched the blood gush out of his wound as if it was the only thing keeping him sane. He ran his other hand through his messy mop of orange hair, pulling and yanking on the strands. Strands of his hair fell, falling onto the ground ever so softly. His scalp began to bleed, sting. 

It felt like I was on fire. Amazing. Amazing, ISN'T IT? AHAHAHAHAHAHA It's amazing. It's fucking amazing, don't you think? DON'T YOU FUCKING THINK SO? 

Hinata began to pant heavily, as he hysterically talked to himself, yet not once did he shed a tear. It felt as if ages had passed since he had last shed one. After the high, he crashed. The feeling of temporary euphoria died down. He was no longer feeling again. After all, it was temporary. He was temporary. Hinata swiped a bandaid over the slit across his palm, not bothering to clean it. He couldn't care if it got infected, hell he couldn't care if he died because of it. 

All that mattered was that 30 seconds of high that he felt every time he cut. Every time he yanked the strands of his hair out. NOTHING ELSE MATTERED. Not him. He didn't matter, not one bit. He flopped onto his bed, groaning. Sleep, Shoyo, sleep. God damn it. 

He tossed and turned, unable to sleep a wink. He couldn't. So he got up and drank a tall glass of cold water, feeling it slide down his throat, filling his stomach. Hell, when was the last time he had a meal? Who knows. Time slips by ever so slowly. But, inevitably, everybody dies...so why didn't he die? 

I curled up into a ball, hugging my knees towards my chest. The moonlight peeked through the window blinds. It was 5:00 am and there wasn't a single sound, a single voice, a single creak. It was silent, dead silent. Dead. I wish I was dead. Why am I still here? Why am I living? To simply exist but this isn't what living is. I'm not living, merely I am a corpse with a soul. I am a lost soul.

He clutched onto the sheets beneath him, nails digging into his already wounded palm. He reopened his wound, causing blood to stain his sheets and hand. It stung, just the way he liked it. The sizzling sensation on his skin, when the wound re-opened. The feeling of how it burned. He loved it. He loved it all. He loved the feeling of pain. He loved it all, except Hinata Shoyo, didn't love himself.