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𝑫𝒂𝒚 ７:𝑨𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒚𝒘𝒂𝒚

Day 7:Alleyway

I sometimes wonder if the pain of living would be greater than the pain I would cause others if I died. It wouldn’t cause many people pain. The gang maybe. I don’t really talk to many other people. For good reason. Which is why since the age of twelve I’ve been smoking, drinking, and cutting myself. I know it ain’t good for me. I’m a growing boy and all. It’s not like I didn’t know what I was getting into. I knew so that’s why I did it. The gang don’t like it much. They used to check me once a week for new scars and they’d scold me anytime there were new ones. It made me feel like a big baby. Like I needed someone to protect me or somethin’.

Today was different though. I wanted to go deeper. It was all I felt I could do. I hated living. And I never hated anything. I wasn’t doing anything. I was just a stupid, ugly, poor greaser. I hated feeling so useless. So powerless to my own thoughts. It isn’t like everyone objected either. My parents made it known how their lives would have been better had I not been born. I thought so too. I didn’t ask to be born and if I could’ve asked I wouldn’t have. Their whoopings marked a constant reminder of how much they wanted me gone. Each bruise, each cut, each broken limb an atonement for all the things I had done.

So here I was, sitting in the dust of an alley way as it poured down rain overhead. There was a space between buildings, offering shield from the rain in the alley. I sharpened my switchblade three times before I left. The drips of rain substituting white noise. I looked down, seeing the small sparkle of the metal after I had whipped it out of my pocket. It was pretty. Something a raccoon might snatch up. I rolled up my sleeves, hesitation overcoming me as I looked down at my already wounded arm. It looked so skinny. So ugly. I hated how everyone felt the need to disfigure me like I was some voodoo doll pricked with needles. I even disfigured myself. I remembered why I was doing this in the first place. No one loves you enough to not get over this. Remember the pain of living? Is it really worth waking up and forcing yourself out of bed each day? No. So do yourself a favor and slit those scrawny wrists of yours. 

I unfastened my belt, wrapping it around my forearm and tightening it, pulling the leather with my teeth. I had done this many times before. Slashing at the forearms of my body and cleaning myself up afterwards. Only, I was always disappointed by the fact that I was still breathing afterwards. I would never go deep enough. One time I did however. I could see some fat tissue in my arm. Like little white bubbled beans filling up my body. I had to glue it shut. God did that one hurt. But this time was different. I didn’t care if it hurt. I wanted to be hurt. There was always something so beautiful about seeing the scars covering your body. It’s difficult to explain. It made me feel tough. And I liked how the bandages looked when wrapped around my cuts.

I pulled up my blade, twirling it in my fingers before pressing the cool tip on the skin of my arm. I sliced down, my legs shifting around in discomfort as I suppressed a groan of discomfort. I deserve this. I pressed down as hard as I could, feeling the layers of skin curling around the blade. 

“Haah..gah…”

Pathetic noises escaped my mouth. Strained cries as I pulled the knife away. I looked down at the cut. It wasn’t deep enough. It burned like hell, shooting fire up through my veins. I plunged the knife deeper into my brand new wound, causing me to yelp in pain. I felt my eyes dilate. Tears now formed in them as I swiped it through my arm like a key card. I felt my body cool for a moment before immediately being set ablaze. My whole body scrunched up in an attempt to tense my muscles as a distraction from the agony I was feeling. Keep going. You’re not done. Quit being dramatic.

I stifled a sob, my bottom lip quivering in anticipation. I pulled my knife up, looking at the red sheets now sprayed across the ground. I felt my tears leave my eyes, looking up at the sky for a moment. It was dark out, stars twinkling and the cool breeze tickling my skin. I shot my head back down, inhaling. I sliced it down further, feeling myself hitting the fat of my arm. I screamed. I actually screamed. No more pitiful whimpers. I gripped my arm, tears and snot flooding my face. I did that thing when you cry when you can’t stop sniffling and sobbing. Like no matter how much air you try to take in it’s not enough. I wanted to be dead. I knew that living hurt more than this. With that I pulled away the knife, looking down at the damage I had caused. The small balls in my skin taunting me with their gaze. I felt my blood spurt out like the flow of a water fountain. Not a great sign if I had wanted to live. Good thing I hadn’t. I had hit a vein, causing it to spray out the fluids pumping through my body like the leak of a pool. I couldn’t stop crying. A whiny bitch crying.

I lowered my hand, laying down as the dark pavement of the alley was littered with my blood. It formed a rug under me, staining my clothes. I closed my eyes, waiting for the moment when I couldn’t open them again.

Word count:994