||My Invisible Wound||

||Dying Again||

P r o l o g u e |

     I kept hearing Paige's words in the back of my mind; that I was nothing. I was a coward. Was she right? I didn't know. I remembered how she just kept talking, making me feel worse about myself, about my life and family. She was the one that made me become this . . . monster.

      All I could think about was when she said that no one loved me; that I was worthless and my parents would give me up in a heartbeat. That was all it took for me to break down crying. I believed those words.

      I didn't know why I did because somehow, somewhere in the back of my brain, I knew they loved me very much. But the way she said it, the way how she made me feel so convinced, felt like I was taking a needle and pushing it through my eye socket.

      My throat was dry and I couldn't breathe. It was as if crying took my breath away and I had to stop to stay alive. I swallowed, but my saliva went down my throat hard, as if it was scratching the sides of my esophagus.

      I inhaled deeply.

      To my left was a small mirror hanging on the wall. I saw my double chin, hair growing underneath it, and my ugly face. I was surprised to know that my mother would call me beautiful almost every day. But she probably just did it to make me feel better. She could have been lying; might have throughout all those years. She probably hated me; maybe wanted someone more attractive looking and thinner to be her daughter. I was probably the most hated teenager out there with no one who loved her.

      Was I?

      Staring at the knife in my hand, it was then that I wanted to slit my throat. I wanted to feel the blood rush out of me. I didn't want to feel sad anymore. Angry. I didn't want to feel as if I was hated by everyone around me. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be happy.

      Through blurred vision, I saw my shaking hand that was close to my throat. The sharp point got thicker. The longer I held the weapon, the more my hand forced itself to be closer to my neck. As the knife hovered over my chest, my heart began to race more. I felt it pounding against my ribcage, about to jump out and runaway.

      It felt like it had been a century since I had tried to die again. But I knew it hadn't been long. Time was too hard to keep track of at that point.

      My fingers were gripping the knife so tightly that my knuckles were white. I couldn't let go.

      The weapon's blade was against my throat and I was waiting for my hand to plunge it through my neck. But as I continued to quiver with fear, nothing happened.

      I couldn't do it.

      It was the conclusion that I came to greet all the time.

      As snot was running down my nose and my cheeks were getting flooded with tears, I decided I couldn't go through with killing myself. It was the fifth time I've tried to harm myself . . . but I couldn't do it. I didn't know why, but somewhere inside me, I knew that I wasn't worth giving up my life.

      "No!" I let go of the knife. It hit the carpeted ground with a thud. The sound of the knife striking the floor had inundated my body with relief.

      My hand instantly wrapped itself around my mouth to stop me from being too noisy. Though my parents weren't home, I didn't want to be exposed for what I was about to do. My body continued to shake as I stayed still. I closed my eyes, trying to breathe normal; trying to calm my heartbeat.

      Letting go of the object was both a relief and very hard to do. The way my hand grasped the weapon, it felt like my hand would never let go. But I was glad that it was out of my hand, away from my throat.

      As I sat there, I knew that I had to do something to get suicide off my mind, or at least not trying to do anything that consisted of hurting myself.

      So I stood, grabbing the knife from the floor to put back in one of my dresser drawers. I turned toward my computer desk, sitting in the spinning chair, and I pulled up my writing document on the desktop to begin writing another chapter to one of my stories.

      It was time to escape my demented reality.