Myocardium

Part 19

I'm on my way to class not even a few hours later, as hidden as I prefer to be. Some rumours I'm not aware of yet must have been spreading, since people are side-eye me and whispering to their friends while doing so. Since this isn't enough to make my mood plummet, I find an envelope by my seat, not really wanting to open it. Is it a death-threat? 

Well...not too bad of a guess, yet what I find is so, so much worse. It's a disgustingly detailed suicide note falsely signed under my name. Reading through it hurts, they have definitely managed to exceed all the expectations didn't even know I had to have about such a thing. The letter is well-written too. Damn, I never expected such a lyrical masterpiece from the people in my major. Interesting.

Quietly, I slip the paper into my bag and stare out of the window, thinking about too much all at once yet again. About my parents. About Crystal. About that letter. It's just very bad timing.
What am I supposed to do, tell a professor?! What would they do? It's useless, the letter is written and signed under my name. Best case they'd call me crazy, worst case they'll call the police and put me under supervision. And I do not want that. 

During our lunch break, Ben comes up to me and dumps a bunch of razorblades onto my table. Wooow, they want me to kill myself, what a shocker. This is becoming exhausting, it's so stupidly childish. I contemplate all my life choices for a moment while I pick up a blade and tell Ben sarcastically, with a serious look on my face, "Oh, thanks. Mine are all used up anyways."

To scare this little asshole off, I promptly run my index finger along the blade, trying not to hiss at how revolting the feeling of doing so is. The cut I cause starts bleeding immediately upon impact, but I manage to keep a straight face as Ben stares at me, dumbfounded. I shrug my shoulders and ask him with some obvious disinterest I have no intention of hiding, "What do you want me to do? Start crying? Tell a professor? I'm way over that whole self-harm shit."

My classmate's expression changes to surprise for a moment, before turning back to pure evil again as he laughs, "You really should start again."
I don't bother answering him, simply rolling my eyes and leaning back in my seat as I watch the blood drip down to my desk. It feels terrifyingly good, how the cut stings and all the pain is centred around it. 

There's a downside of this, though: This sort of pain makes my mind come up with stupid ideas. Fuck, it's been more than two years since I've last had these urges, and yet they're coming back with such force that I can only hope I'll be able to resist. While it's still between lectures, I sneakily slip one of the blades into my pocket and make my way to the bathroom.

Thoroughly, I clean the small metal object with hot water before locking myself in one of the cubicles. My now exposed thigh is my deemed canvas. While I'm so sure about my doings, I hesitate for a second before the blade can make contact with my rather pale skin. 

The vision of Sasha is on my mind. What would he think of his older brother if he knew about this? He would be so disappointing, wouldn't he? The second I realize what I am just about to do, I snap back into reality, shake my head with a frown and break the blade in half with force before I dump it in the toilet and flush.
"What the hell am I doing?", I whisper to myself in disbelief, pull my pants back up and quickly leave the bathroom again, wiping my bleeding fingers on my pants.

Even though I feel a sense of pride for not letting the urges win, I can't stop thinking about the 'would, could and should'. I mean...the black jeans I'm wearing would make it terrifyingly easy for me to hide the blood that could slowly begin seeping through the material by now. 

For the rest of my lectures, the downgraded high I would be feeling could amuse me and keep me semi-focused. It could be such an easy way to forget, you know? But it's better this way, I know exactly that I would regret it eventually, and that the relief would only be temporary. It's always been this way.