razors hurt

Chapter 1:

hi everyone, just a TW, this is a story about SELF HARM and SUICIDE, so please just take that into consideration, and enjoy the new book,

XOXO, liv

***

-Clifton-

2:41 a.m.

The cold razor blade penetrated my pail skin. Causing my eye's to water and pain to shoot up my arm.

My therapist's voice echoed in my head: what's a good way to distract yourself from hurting yourself?

The thing is, nothing, I did this because of the real world, this awfully fucked up world. It's not like I wanted to leave it, I just hated it.

***

I had used a new unused razor and gotten the razor out.

I had lines and lines of open wound's down my left arm and thighs. I felt guilty but I couldn't stop, it was addicting. The feeling of relief overpowered the feeling of pain. The warm blood trickled down my arm, over my fingers and dropped into little piles of red pool's, one per finger.

I winced as I dug the razor into my arm once again, another pool being formed on my sheets.

"shit!" I muttered as I realised that my sheets were white. "how will I explain this? I had my period" genius! "fuck, that won't work, I'm a guy." I was out of ideas.

I quickly grabbed my hoodie and placed it over myself, to hide my freshly cut gashes. I walked out of my room to head to the bathroom, to get some cleaning spray. Until I was stopped by my sister; Alexa.

"cliff?" she asked, sternly. Shit! I was caught.

"hey, Alexa, what are you doing up at 2:40 in the morning?" I asked, trying not to show my guilty look by hiding behind a wall.

"well, I could ask you the same question, but you did ask first, so I'll answer, then you, alright?" she said in a caring but strictly.

"alright" I said, unsure about what my answer would be.

"perfect, anyway, I was hungry, so I made mac and cheese, want some?" she asked. I wasn't expecting that answer, but I accepted and joined her for some late-night food.

***

Alexia and I didn't get to talk much anymore, we used to be inseparable, but since she started year 12, she's been busy studying... or getting high. Even though we were total opposites, we never fought. We could always get along perfectly.

She was amazing, she was; sporty, smart, social, popular, pretty, confident and an extremely kind person (if you didn't piss her off). Her hazel eyes always sparkled, even when she was sick or sad, and her dark brown hair, although often looks stunning, rarely agreed with her.

I on the other hand, I was; sporty but I hated most sport's I tried, dumb, social with my friends but shy around others, mostly an outcast at school, not pretty but not ugly, I was not confident, and I was kind... to people who deserved it (not many people). My eyes were a sea blue and they sparkled when I was happy (which wasn't very often), and my dirty blond hair always looked like a bird's nest, and never agreed with me.

***

"so, year eight huh? How's that going for you?" she asked me kindly, as she filled her mouth with mac and cheese.

"not well, I mean well obviously, but not the way you described it to be... it's way worse"

"I described it as social chaos and mentally draining. And a lot of explicit language, how can it be worse?" she asked me.

"you know, people being assholes." I told her in response.

"yeah, I know, you know I'm always here, right?" she asked.

"of course, I do." I responded, cheerily.

"great, now do you have any questions?"

"some of that vodka, that your hiding terribly in that 'glass of water' there?" I requested.

"no!" she yelled firmly.

-Ella-

3:27 a.m.

My tanned skin was stained red, my dismantled pencil sharpener sitting next to me, calling for me to continue using it. I tried to not listen to it, but alas, my fingers wrapped around the razor and pulled it up to one of the few clear spots on my skin. I dug the sharp razor into my skin. Hot, thick blood flooded down my arm. I was immune to the pain at this point.

The clock illuminated my room, it was 3:30 in the morning. My clothes, skin, sheet's and even rug were stained bright red. I needed to stop, but I was my escape from everything. I had to do it, coving it was a problem for later, right now, I just wanted the outside world to stop, I wanted everything to stop, even my own heartbeat.

***

I needed to cry, but I seemed to be immune to crying. I never cried anymore. Was that bad for me? I didn't know, I quickly grabbed my phone and opened safari.

Looking at the search bar, I wondered how the best way to explain this would be.

Why don't I cry anymore?

I typed into the search bar. I clicked on a few thing's and nothing came up, just stupid things like;

What does it mean if you don't cry anymore?

It's not an uncommon experience and it's called anhedonia. Simply put, anhedonia is when you lose interest in the social activities and physical sensations that you once enjoyed. It's a symptom of many mental health conditions, including depression, schizophrenia and bipolar disorder.

And

Is it bad that I don't cry anymore?

Being unable to cry isn't necessarily a problem. Some people have honed healthy ways to feel and process emotions of sadness without crying.

Neither of this information helped.

***

I laid in my bed, moping about my stupid decision to pick up that stupid pencil sharpener. Why couldn't I be mentally stable, why couldn't I be happy, why couldn't I be... be normal?

My hands started to shake, my arm in an immense amount of pain with every millimetre it moved. I needed to cry, I needed comfort, I needed anyone. But everyone thought I was getting better.

With all the courage in my body, I picked up my phone, which read 4:52 a.m., it was too early in the morning to go to sleep, but I hadn't slept all night, I was up sitting on my bed, with the  pencil sharpener.

I clicked into the message app, and tapped the icon pinned, named Siri.

Hey Siri, sorry to message u so early, just wondering if u were able to talk later, a ok if u can't ttyl

I typed out, and hit send. Siri, my older sister, recently left for university and I haven't seen her in forever. We were inseparable once, but now, she lived in Adelaide, while I was still in Melbourne, the shittiest place on the planet.

***

I missed Siri, her beautiful blond hair, contrasting with her hazel eyes her outgoing personality and stunning figure. She was everything I wanted to be and more. My dark brown hair and brown eyes both looked like someone had shit on me and sent me on my way. I was extremely introverted and I had no boob, no ass and I was shaped like a stick.

Let's just say, I despised my look's and just everything about myself.