Behind Blue Eyes

25

March 25th

The high I got from last night leaves me with a stinging headache. It's causing me to have more negative thoughts than I should have. I get annoyed just by thinking about anyone or anything. I think about getting out of bed but get frustrated and irritated of the thought of having any other human interaction.

Sure enough, I open my door and see David ready to head downstairs. Shit.

"Hey" he greets.

"Hi" I shortly reply. I head downstairs and hear him follow suit.

"You sleep OK?" he asks.

"Yes" I reply, obvious annoyance in my voice.

"What's up your ass?" he asks.

"Nothing is, David."

"Something is because you're being really short with me and I'm just asking regular questions."

I don't say anything.

"Fine, gimme the silent treatment. I'm used to it by this point."

I turn around, stopping him in his tracks. "If you're so used to it and irritated by it, maybe it would be better if I just got out of your hair."

"C'mon Sammie, I didn't mean that."

"You obviously did if you said it."

He sighs. "Sam, you know I just got heated."

"Well, what if I didn't know? Huh? Then what?"

"You're making a much bigger deal of this than it needs to be. We need to just apologize for what we said and how we said it and move along with our day, OK?"

"I'm not apologizing" I say, defiantly.

I take a step back and a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's gotten into me."

"It's OK" he says. "You wanna hug?"

"No, thank you. Sorry." I turn and go to get my keys.

"Where you going?"

"Going out for a little while. Is that OK?"

"Yeah, I just wanted to make sure you're OK."

"Thank you." I open the door and leave through the garage.

---

I drive around for an hour and a half, just wasting time, listening to music and hoping I find a place to waste some more time at. Paul calls me. I debate on whether I want to answer it right away, which is a thought I can't even believe I'm having right now. This is someone who really cares about me and I'm thinking about ignoring him. How pathetic of me. I do pick up, though.

"Hey, babe" I surprise him by saying.

There's a slight pause before I hear him reply "Hey, hey. How h-have you b-been?"

"Shitty. I'm always shitty, though. What about you? How have you been?"

"I've been OK, just been w-w-w-worried about you."

"You don't have to wory so much about me, Paul, I'm a big girl, I got it."

"I know, but s-s-s-sometimes I can't help b-b-b-but to worry. You understand, right?"

I don't say anything at first.

"You still there?" he asks.

"Yeah, sorry. I understand."

"Good. Will I see you tomorrow?"

I don't say anything for a few seconds. I don't really feel like going, tomorrow.

"I think so" I sorta lie.

"Good. Get some rest b-b-before then, OK?"

"OK" I say. "Love you."

"L-l-l-l-love you, too" he says back.

----

I'm in the bathtub, later that night. It's officially less than a week until my birthday; the big 2-1. It's also the same amount of time until the big decision. "The End...", if you will. With the way things have been going the last couple of days, the seesaw is leaning towards going through with it.

There's a razor next to the tub, in case anything needs taken off. I pick it up and look at it longer than a normal person would look at a straight razor. I pop the top of it off and take one of the small blades out. I toss the handle aside and hold the blade in my hand. What I'm about to do is horrible, and not something I've done in a little while, but it'll help alleviate some of the pain.

Taking the blade in my right hand, I hold my left arm out. I feel a tear or two well up in my eye, but I don't have time to cry. I'm stronger than that. Ha, the irony.

I dig it ever so slightly into the top of my wrist. I take it out after pressing for a few seconds and notice some blood dribbling out. I throw the blade into the tiny trash can, close by. There's a tiny bit of blood on the corner of it, but that can be covered up. I wanna throw my hand over my wrist to stop and clot the bleeding, but my eyes are too fixated on what I just did.

I get out and wash it out in the sink. It stings like hell, but I have no one to blame but myself. I throw one bandaid on it and get dressed for bed.

Lying in bed, my eyes continuously pull over to the cut I made. The bandaid helped in stopping the flow of blood, but I still can't get over that it was something I was able to just do with no hesitation or deeper thought put into it. I'm relapsing, and I hate the feeling of all of it. If David, mom, dad or even Paul find out about this... who am I kidding? It doesn't even matter, anymore.