I leaned against the wall, panting and coughing. My heart was pounding, trying to beat its way out of my chest. My mind refused to think and my vision was going. I needed this. There was no other way out. The sickening feeling was unbearable. I hated it. I hate myself.
Crawling over to my nightstand, I rummaged through the second drawer, pulling out my journal. I propped myself at the base of my bed, and shook the book until I heard a familiar ‘plink’ as the blade fell to the floor. Picking it up, I felt the intensity to which my body was yearning for this moment. I rolled up my sleeves and placed the razor directly against my wrist. I closed my eyes, hearing my own sharp intake of breath as the blade made three small trails of blood across my skin. Never too far, always just deep enough, I thought to myself, dropping the familiar cool metal down to the floor beside me.
Resting my head against the backboard of my bed, I mentally prepared myself for the day ahead of me. School, practice, class council meeting, homework, workout, sleep; sounded like a good enough day.
Still reeling from my rush, I take my time standing up. I glance across the room at my calendar, August14th; it’d been almost three days since I’ve last eaten, was it enough. I weighed myself on my bathroom scale, 107 pounds. Not good enough. Grabbing my toothbrush from the sink, tears threatened at the corner of my eyes, hating myself for what I was about to do.
