This was the last time, the last time I wanted to this. The last time I wanted to feel my voice go hoarse from screaming at my parents. The last time I wanted to run upstairs and cry. The last time I wanted to feel blood running down my legs, the last time I wanted to feel the burn of alcohol running down my throat. But inside, I knew it wouldn't be. It would never be. The only time it would stop would be when I came to terms that I was an addict. Something a thirteen-year-old should never have to admit. Something that no one should never have to admit.
Reaching out for the plastic bottles I kept in my room, clear plastic, crumpled, half filled with what my parents thought was water. What they didn't know at the time was that I was siphoning out water for vodka. Shakily untwisting the small plastic cap and holding my breath, pressing the rim to my lips and tipping it back, tasting the bittersweet, pungent, sour alcohol wash over my tongue. As the liquid runs down my throat, I feel that familiar burn. A burning feeling that I had grown used to, a burning feeling that I had grown to like. To crave. Half the bottle is gone within twenty minutes, causing my speech to slur, my muscle control to be less than it should, my brain to be impaired. The only thing that could make this worse? The cartridge of razor blades that were kept in the back corner of my underwear drawer. Bringing them out from behind the random fabric that was in the drawer, I grabbed one, slicing my finger in the process. I didn't care, the blade was so sharp, I just didn't care anymore.
Pulling down the jeans I wore, revealing the scarred, mangled, burned, scabbed, stitched flesh that was once the top of my thighs. With shaking hands, I lowered the blade to my skin, pushing down on the pale flesh and dragging my hand across. At first nothing is seen, just fat. Then the red, the crimson red, starts to flow. The endorphins rush, only causing me to crave the feeling more. Nine more times would I drag this blade across my thighs tonight. Blood seeping into my jeans, mingling with the mascara-filled tears. Throwing the razor back into the drawer was easy, looking down at my legs was not. Tears dropped into the fresh cuts, stinging them. "Shit." I muttered countless times, the only thing worse than this was doing it sober. And sober wasn't my friend.
