One Minute

Chapter Eleven- Cut

The sun was beginning to set, and there was still no sign of you. Nikolay left to go search for you, and I was still worried. I was scared, that you too, had left me. So many thoughts came to mind, flooding my system.

            Maybe you went to a bar and met a girl and decided to run off with her. Maybe you got lost. Maybe you ran away and didn’t want to come back to all this. Maybe you got hurt.

            What if you did get hurt? What if someone took you away and tried to butt rape you or something? What if you’re locked away in a cage or something about to be sold as a sex slave like Kira?

            I got scared, and I remembered Naomi.

            No. Please don’t think about Naomi.

            I’m not gonna act like everything was how it was before. No, your best friend is lost. Ever since that day. Sure, the day you texted me I seemed "normal”... but, you should've seen right through me. You should've known how I truly felt. I’m upset, no words can describe it. You had no right, to make me feel bad. At all. Did it ever cross your mind that I hated you seeing me so sad, so lost in the dark? That my last few weeks in Hollister, all I ever did was cry?

            My body began to tremble and my breathing quickened. Black spots floated around in front of my eyes, obscuring my vision as I began to think about her again.

            I said I would never replace you. But, no, you don’t listen. It pissed me off to think you were gonna apologize, but then you say, "I wanted you to feel bad”. That’s where that whole letter felt completely useless and I cried. I cried my heart out. You don’t make someone who means so much to you feel pain. Especially on purpose. Who do you take me for?

            I dug my nails into my forearms, gripping tight to the caramel skin, jaw clenched, rocking back and forth. Everything started to blur, and my body felt cold.

            Right now, I’m starting new. Those who hurt me aren’t in my life. I put them aside. I deserve to smile. And if you're in the way of that, then accept it and leave me alone. I’ll gladly accept being the first friend you gave up on.

            I started to wheeze and I felt extremely light. Trying to stand, I stumbled and fell to my knees. There was something inside me that was stirring violently. A feeling that I was hoping wouldn’t come back. An urge.

The urge to cut.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I ran to grab my backpack that I brought with me and I flung it open with a dying hunger, searching desperately for my precious blade. I threw all my clothes onto the ground, shirts and underwear flying everywhere and finally, at the bottom of my backpack, I found it. Taking the delicate handle in trembling hands, I pressed the coolness of the metal to my cheek, trembling, sobbing.

I couldn’t feel the happiness anymore—only the pain that welled up inside of me. With one swift move the blade was upon my arm, the edge of the sharp metal pressed against the delicate skin. I trembled violently, and thought real hard about what I was going to do. It had been weeks since I did it—did I really want to do it again? But at the same time, it wasn’t me that wanted it. My body wanted it. It felt the urge to feel that satisfaction again, and I needed it like a crack head needs their drugs.

Cutting was my drug, and I needed it, now.

Slowly, I dug the blade into my skin, wincing at first before proceeding, dragging it down the new, virgin flesh of the inside of my left forearm. I bit down on my lower lip, watching my arm tremble and tense, digging deeper until I saw faint traces of blood and I moved the blade away before striking again in a different direction, doing this over and over again, making each cut original in their own way. On the top of my forearm, in capital letters, I dug in: