Scarred

blood-stained carpet

When I was nine, I started cutting.

I don't know why I did it.
I was in my room crying in the middle of the night when I thought of hurting myself.

I started slamming my wrist onto my desk repeatedly until a bruise was visible. It felt amazing to know that I could do that to myself. Then an idea formed in my mind.

I searched through my desk until I found a knife. It was clean and very sharp. I practiced slicing on paper to see how sharp it was. Then, I turned on my lamp and pressed the knife onto my wrist. I sat there for what felt like hours.

"Should I really do this?" I thought to myself.

I pushed down on the blade and drug it across my wrist slowly.
I watched as a thin line of blood started to form. I watched carefully as it got bigger and bigger. It felt amazing. Like a high.

I started dragging the blade across my wrist repeatedly. It didn't hurt at all. Blood was dripping onto my carpet but I didn't care. In that moment, nothing mattered.

That night was the beginning of a very bad addiction.