Bruised and Scarred

Bruised and Scarred

Hello loves! I am so sorry that I haven't updated in so long. I've been having some personal issues lately. but here's a new story. I hope Yall like it c:

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Wet salt permeated itself onto my dry, cracked lips. My eyes were squeezed shut, praying I would never have to open them ever again. Despite my closed eyes, tears found their way to stream down my cheeks, dripping off my chin and landing just to bring a stinging sensation. Pain, oh the pain. It's all I have. The only thing I have left to hold on to. My eyes flicked open to meet a gruesome sight. My left forearm was covered in blood, pulsating the sanguine liquid. I grit my teeth, my jaw clenched. This is what I deserve.

NO. YOU DON'T EVEN DESERVE THIS. YOU ARE WEAK. KEEP GOING.

A voice screamed inside my head. I had to obey. After all, it was my own. I clenched the razor with a shaking hand and dug it into my already torn skin. The sound of tearing flesh reached my ears before the pain did. A whimper escaped my lips, and instantly I regretted it.

SHUT UP. STOP BEING WEAK. GO AGAIN. YOU ARE WORTHLESS.

The razor dug into the wounds, cutting them deeper. Blood splattered on the white porcelain sink. Soon, blood trickled down the drain in an almost steady flow. The razor clattered into the stained sink, my head swimming. I ran cold water to wash down the blood in the sink, then slowly brought my arm under the faucet. More pain shot up my arm, and I dug my nails into my palm. Suddenly, I heard the garage door opening beneath my feet. "Shit." I muttered. I turned the faucet off, and quickly snatched my bandages. Ignoring the ever stinging pain, I messily wrapped the bandages around my forearm, making sure they were tight. As I ran from the bathroom, I checked to make sure my razor was hidden away and all blood had been washed away. Just as the front door opened, I leaped into bed, yanking the covers over my head.

I dared not to breathe, just listening to the sounds of the footsteps, and the pulsing of my arm. At the sound of the bedroom door opening I closed my eyes and lay motionless. "Better be fucking asleep." I heard my father mutter as he shut the door. I exhaled, finally able to breath. With my head swimming from blood loss, I fell quickly into unconsciousness, secretly wanting this to be the last time I would fall asleep, and never wake up. 

The next morning, I woke, and trudged to the bathroom, splashing water on my face. Water dripped off my chin as I placed my hands on either side of the sink, my head hanging forward. Quickly I recoiled, the skin having been stretched on my left arm. I inspected the multitude of wounds, running my fingers very lightly over them. But I shook my head, needing to concentrate. I then performed my daily routine: 

Wash my face 

Straighten my hair 

Drink coffee 

Brush my teeth 

Dress myself 

I examined myself in the mirror, twisting my body this way and that. My skin was ghastly pale from rarely seeing sunlight. I cringed at my torso. I have never been happy with my body. My friends always told me I was tiny, and I guess I sort of was, but my stomach still had flab, and my thighs brushed against each other. What I wanted was a flat stomach and ribs, and a thigh gap. But, after months and months of trying to lose weight, I just didn't know how to keep it off or continue without my parents noticing. I starved myself constantly, but on weekends, my parents knew when I wasn't eating and so I had to shove food down my throat to please them.

A disgusted look on my face, I slipped on my Pierce the Veil shirt, over which came my jacket, followed by black torn jeans, purple converse and my black beanie. I checked the clock. 6:40. It was almost time to go. I gathered my books and binders, shoving them into my bag, which I thrusted over my shoulders, and exited the room. Slowly and quietly, I edged down the wooden stairs, careful to step over the plank that creaked loudly. Rounding the corner from the stairs, I saw my dad through the crack of the kitchen door sitting at the table reading the paper. At the sound of my near silent entrance, he looked up, folded the paper and reached for the car keys. I didn't speak of the previous night. There wasn't a point to it.