I watch as the drops of liquid crimson fall from my left wrist. All caused by the razor in my right hand stained red from months of use.
I need a new one, this one has become dull, harder to cut.
I place the razor back onto the counter and sigh when I look down to see that the cuts have already stopped bleeding. I walk to my bed and get under the covers, not bothering to wrap the wounds.
School is tomorrow, or as I like to call it...
My personal hell.
....
My eyes open to see the familiar white ceiling of my room. The stinging sensation of the cuts I've become accustomed to lingers on my arms. I look down and can't help but be disappointed. There isn't even any blood on the sheets.
It won't work.
It never works.
So why do I keep dong it?
The relief is only temporary, after all.
The pain only comes back the next day.
So why do I continue to do it every day, every time I feel the same pain, even though it won't work?
Oh, that's right.
Because I'll welcome anything that distracts me from the pain.
It's worth it.
Even if it's just for a day.
YOU ARE READING
Before It's Too Late
Teen Fiction"I used to put myself to sleep at night by telling myself I'm strong for not picking up the razor, the pills, all the things said to take pain away. But now, I am weak." -Mallory Everett "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the things that hurt you, I'm s...
