Dear Ethan,
Physical pain is enough to make me forget about my emotional pain, so I prefer it. Since I can't continuously try killing myself, I decided I would begin to cut myself. I could do it more often and I could visibly see what would happen to me. I'm sure it will be amazing.
When I first cut, I wanted to try to find a thing to use. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed my dad's old screwdriver, the one he left at the house when he left us. I took the rusty tool, then I found a small, handheld sharpener. I unscrewed the blade, discarding the plastic part in the trash can.
I was going to put the screwdriver back, but I decided to keep it for sentimental reasons. It was my dad's once, after all, and it hurt that he left our family once I lost my legs in the accident. He barely left anything except for a few articles of clothing and some tools.
Then I went to the bathroom and locked the door before standing over the sink. I had a towel underneath me to catch the blood. Slowly, in order to enjoy the painful sensation, I let the blade pierce my tanned skin. At that same moment, I thought about my mom, the bullying, the assembly, the accident, about you, about my dad, about everything. I almost wanted to explode at that moment. Everything was wrong and it was killing me. I dug the blade more deeply into my body until I finally screamed. I dried the blood away and cleaned the cut. I hid all of the evidence, tucking my blade deep into the cabinet with my personal items. Painfully, I covered my arm with my sleeve.
I figured I had to tell you the story of my first cut, which was very deep because of all the emotion behind it. It's probably the first of many
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Lost Half
Non-Fiction{Warning: Contains suicide, sexual items, and self-harming.} I'm heartbroken. I have had a major crush on my best friend Ethan for years, since about the time I met him. I confessed to him a few weeks ago, and when I was following him to the park to...
