Saving Grace

[Section Two]

I walked out of my room and downstairs. I went into the kitchen and got some soda, then to the bathroom, taking the soda with me. In the cabinet above the sink, where we kept medicine, I got out two bottles: my antidepressants and my mom’s bottle of diet pills. I got one antidepressant and four of the diet pills, and put the bottles back where they belonged.

On the back of the diet pill bottle, I read ‘limit of two per day’. As stupid as it was, I shoved all five pills into my mouth, took a drink, and swallowed the soda and all of the pills. I finished the glass of soda and took the glass into the kitchen and walked back upstairs.

Everybody else in the house was asleep; I was free to do, for the most part, anything I wanted to do. It was a Friday night, so I didn’t need to be up early for anything.

Back in my room, I opened my dresser drawer and pulled out a small box. Inside the box was one of my favorite things: a razor blade.

I sat on my bed against the wall and turned the blade over in my hands. I was so close to cutting; it wouldn’t be anything unusual, I cut all the time. I knew it was wrong, I knew it was a poor decision but the power it made me feel was amazing. It gave me a sense of being in control and it made me feel alive. I loved the feeling and rush it gave me, so I kept coming back to it as an escape.

I passed the blade back and forth between my hands, passing time, considering cutting. I knew more and more every time how bad it was, that I shouldn’t cut, yet I couldn’t help doing something that made me feel so alive.

I drew the blade across my wrist, right above scars from cutting for years even before that night. A certain feeling started rushing through me: a mix of adrenaline and power. I loved it. That certain feeling was the one thing that kept me cutting after the first time and it drove me nuts, in both good ways and bad.

Blood poured down my forearm, and I got slightly shaky. It was fairly normal. Any time I cut my wrists, I got shaky. If I cut anywhere else, I was fine.

I watched the blood drain from my wrist, and felt the tears stream down my cheeks, but even with the tears and the pain, it felt amazing. I didn’t want to stop.  I made another cut on my wrist; it was slightly longer, deeper, and wider.  I grew even shakier.  I glanced around the room for something to clean blood up with that I wouldn’t have to worry Mom finding.

I grabbed a black cami-style top from my closet.  I wrapped my wrist in the stretchy material to slow the bleeding and wipe what was running down my arm away.

After moments I stopped shaking.  The bleeding stopped.  I glanced at my clock. ‘3:02am. Great.’ I thought to myself. ‘ I‘ll probably sleep until noon. That’s totally not weird of me to do. I don’t know.. I’ll just tell mom I don’t feel well…’

I tossed the cami to the side and hugged my wrist close to my chest lightly; the cuts were still tender and it stung to press too hard. I sat in my corner for a few minutes, thinking about things. I already regretted the cuts.  I already wished that I hadn’t made them; there weren’t many, and they weren’t that deep, but it was enough to make me feel terrible.  Tears slowly made their way to corners of my eyes, and started to slide down my cheeks.  The warmth of it stayed on my face for moments even after the tears. 

I was so sick of everything.  I was tired of being bullied every day at school.  I was sick of coming home every day and acting like everything was fine.  I was fed up with being scared to walk to school in the morning.  I couldn’t take it.  All I wanted was to be happy.  I just wanted everything to end…

I wanted my life to end.