Warnings: Self-Harm, Crying, Get Tissues.
Word Count: 515
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I sat in the shower until the water ran cold. I was soaked from head to toe and shivering, silent tears ripping themselves from my eyes.
There was a blade in my hand.
I didn't really know what to do, didn't even really want to do it. But then my mind returned to what had happened and my emotions flared again, vivid and strong. Stronger than me.
I cut deep, letting the pain wash my thoughts away. It hurt more than I anticipated, but wasn't that the point? Distract yourself in any way possible. Hurt yourself 'till the tears run dry. Run, or fight, just make yourself forget somehow.
As soon as I saw what I'd done, I got up in horror and turned the shower off, dropping the razor and panting hard. I wanted to run away from myself right then, find a new body and a new life with different friends and oh god I just wanted to forget so badly.
But as the days went on, the razor taunted me. I watched as the scar on my wrist healed, and fought with myself constantly. It had felt so good and so awful at the same time, but it was the only thing that had worked so far. If only for a moment, I had forgotten.
I did it again.
And again.
Soon my whole arm was covered in scars, but I looked at myself in the mirror and I didn't even care. Why should I stop now?
He's to blind to notice, he's not here to care.
***
Eyes wide and sad, he looks down at me from his chair. The smell of disinfectant assaults my nose and lion is sitting on my chest. I am lying on a hospital bed, wrists wrapped tightly in bandages.
"Why, Phil?" He doesn't sound curious, or even mad. Just empty.
I didn't want to tell him it was because of him, and I didn't have a ready lie so I stayed silent.
Instead, I just stared at him, drinking in his face and wondering why he was here. He slowly lifted my diary up for me to see, expression unchanged by my horrified reaction.
"No, no!" I gasp, but my voice sounds weak.
"I've already read it," He mentions. I sink back in defeat, tears pricking the corners of my eyes.
"You never told me she died, Phil. You never told me any of this!" He waves the small book in my face, and I know that he is getting angry.
"I could have, I don't know, helped you! I told you everything about me, every last thing. Why did you hide so much? Do I even know you?" His voice cracks on the first word and his heart cracks on the last.
Tears form and spill down his cheeks, only to be wiped away hastily.
"Sorry," is all I can muster as a reply.
"Phil, are we best friends?" He asks, endless brown eyes searching mine.
"Yes," I say.
"Then why didn't you tell me about your mother? She died, Phil, and you didn't even tell me!"
"Sorry," I whisper again.
