When I was in sixth grade I was living with my father. Only for a short time though. The first time I cut myself I was in his bathtub. I lied there holding a shaving razor. I stared at the three perfectly aligned razors and thought "What would happen if I just..." slice. It was about the size of a paper cut. Blood welled up on the surface of my skin and I sat there and stared. Numbness took over my body as I looked at what I did.
The reason for moving out was when I was 14 I took a bath again. I took that razor and tore my arm apart. I lied there as the water slowly turned to a washed red color. When I felt the drop on my arm stop, I did it again. And again. And again until I was unconscious. I woke up on the couch in my fathers living room. My arm wrapped neatly with gauss and tape. Once my eyes were open enough and I sat up, my dad because screaming. "Its pathetic that you do this! Would you like to watch me cut myself?!" I cried "Daddy, no! I'm sorry! You don't understand!" That's when the unconsciousness came back. He hit me. Alcohol on his tongue came off in spurts, hitting my face as he screamed at me. Then he hit me again. "Daddy stop! please! I'm sorry!" He didn't stop. I didn't go to school for a week. I was in the 7th grade.
I moved out and back with my mother because I thought it'd be different.
It's the same.
The fucking same.
I'm 16 now. And I want to see blood washed bathtub water again.
TRH
