Pain Killer

18 ~ Safe-Space

addiction.
drugs, self-harm, social media, whatever numbs your senses, thoughts, or feelings. this song kind of sounds like a twisted love song if you don't know the context.

Reader discretion is advised ._.

^^^^^^^

I hate those nights when the dark is a dim gray, and my bed feels colder than the floor. The ceiling swirls in my vision as I stare up at it. It's these moments where I search for any other alternative, painful or numbing, and drown myself in it just to escape the color of my gray room and the swirling, twirling ceiling.

Reading an entire book with my phone's light, playing puzzle games till my eyes bleed, writing every single thought that passes my mind into my phone's notes, crying till I fall asleep. And then there's cutting.

Unlike the rest of my hobbies that I do at night, this one is the most effective when it comes to feeling alive. How ironic, that sounds; the thing that hurts the most makes me feel better. When I watch the blood dripping and feel my eyes burning from the pain, I think, perhaps everything will get better and I know that what I'm doing is wrong, but why is it the one thing that makes sense? All of my thoughts and all of the pain and fear inflicted by those that I love, it all makes no sense, but why, why does this comfort me?

I know, mere moments after I do it, I feel the intense guilt of somehow betraying everyone. All of those silent promises I have made to them, I always see them broken in pieces at my feet after my dirty deeds. And the thing that made sense, moments ago, hurts all the more and the numbing sensation, the peace it brought, disappears into thin air. I'm left to the hurricane of thoughts, the insurmountable sting, the blood stains on the floor, and the dread to show the new drawings to anyone who formerly loved me. How could they love me now? This monster I've become, how can they still see that innocent, kind, little girl they somehow think I am?

...

I find my neck aching as my eyes open to the tiles of the bathroom floor. Morning light glistens across the white surface. I sit up, my whole body stiff and sore. Black blood stains on the floor and large, dark scabs on my wrist remind me of last night.

Shoving it all to the bottom of my thoughts, I pull myself off the floor and soak a towel. I do my best to wash the stained tiles, scrubbing at the dark spots. The grout in between each tile is red-tinted. Martha will notice. I rub harder till my arms give out.

Panting, I deem it done and peek out the door to hear silence. It must be past eight.

I throw the dirty towel and my laundry into the washing machine, congratulating my discreet solution.

Next, I clean and wrap my arms with fresh bandaging. Changing my clothes and pulling a hoodie on, the one with sleeves long enough to cover my knuckles, I opt for a few sips of water and pull my backpack on. I avoid the mirror, knowing there will be dark circles and pasty skin awaiting my notice.

Best not to see it at all. I lock the door behind me and set towards school, twenty minutes late and not a drop of feeling inside me; worry, happiness, anger, sadness. It's all deadened, just the way I like it.

...

I end up sitting at a table in the common area, not even making it through the classroom door. Something holds me back, the feeling of a noose around my neck. A tight grip on that rope keeps me from taking another step.

I watch the classmates exit, a group shuffling past me, to the outside. A few recognize me on their way, eyes sliding away from mine as soon as they notice.

My gaze drops to the textbooks I set on the table. I open one, not even considering trying to study and skim through the pages.

I attempt a few assignments but shut the book, letting out a big huff.