Back for Me

CH6 Part 2 Crimson

I ran far from the building into an ally without looking back, there was a dumpster about half way through the ally so I hid behind it. I sat down and pulled out my phone, subconsciously I took the cover off and before I knew it I was running my blade along old scars. Cutting is something I have never been proud of. I used to criticize people who cut I thought that no matter what life puts you through you’d have to be an idiot to purposely cut yourself I mean when you cut you have to realize that these are scars that will accompany you forever. These are not scars that you can be proud of; these are scars that you can’t talk about with your cousins when you compare scars from when you were a child. These scars each have a story. They each have their own meaning and these are tales that are too sad to be told. Now I understand that these scars are a different story each one of these scars is like a different tattoo, a tattoo that is not a piece of art it is a mark on your body that was not strategically placed. It is not something people look at and say “that’s gorgeous, is there a meaning behind it?” no these scars are meant to be hidden. And if someone asks it’s because they truly care. When someone asks about the scars it is not like when a stranger asks how your day is going because when asked about your day that is just a standard question that shows courtesy it is not a question with depth. On the other hand when asked about your scars it is because someone truly cares. Someone really wants to know what is wrong they really want to know if there is anything they can do to help. I remember exactly when I started this losing battle against self-harm. This all started right after that incident. I don’t ever want to speak of it again. I can’t, even thinking about that day will bring the urge to pull out my blade, it gives me the urge to get in the shower and turn the water on as hot as possible and get in there just to feel the burn, to feel the sting of the water and hopefully feel clean once again. To feel like if that day never happened, that day that left me feeling disgusting, dirty and undesirable.

I remember running away and getting a motel room because under no circumstances was I going home not after that. I got into my hotel room and frantically I tried to think of what to do. I couldn’t call the cops because that would cause me humiliation. I couldn’t tell anyone for they would force me to go to the police. I decided to keep to myself. In a moment of panic I unconsciously pulled out one of the complimentary razors the hotel had in the bathroom and broke it. I took one of the blades and began slicing at my skin. I did not cut deep because the pain was too big yet it was addictive and I quickly realized that thanks to the blade the pain of what I had just been through was leaving my body. I quickly grew attached to those tiny crimson pearls that were growing on my fore arm. It was the strangest thing ever. It felt as if with every new crimson pearl that grew on my arm the pain from that days experience was more manageable. And the more I cut the better I felt. Unfortunately the feeling was short lived because as soon as I stopped and the initial pain was gone the feeling of being worthless was back but it came back accompanied by a soaring pain on my arm where the scabs were beginning to form.

A few days later I found it was becoming a habit; I was beginning to cut regularly as a way to deal with what had happened that day. The amount of scabs forming on my arm was ridiculous. Also I wasn’t getting crimson pearls forming on my skin. Those pearls had long turned into streams of blood. The transition was crazy fast. What had once been disgusting to me was now an addiction. What had once been small crimson pearls were now small streams that ended in the bathroom sink and I would always watched how the water in the sink went from being crystal clear to being a light shade of pink to when it turned as red as the blood that streamed from my wrists.

And here I was already adding to the nasty collection on my arms. Except this time there was no sink here there was no bandages or gauzes to clean up there was no comfort in this.