Flaws: your perfections

Chapter 1: Pilot

Little disclaimer: English is not my first language!

Im sitting in my room, mindlessly scrolling through social media, like I always do. And there they are again. These beautiful, perfect girls. I sigh and watch these people, wondering if I'm doing something wrong. If you'd compare me to one of these social media girls, you'd laugh and say "wow there are worlds between them", and I wouldn't disagree. I mean come on, look at me. I have short brown hair, boring brown eyes, pimples, and my body is covered in scars. My mind starts drifting off, thinking about how I could look like. How I'd look like with my flaws being perfected. But I quickly get pulled out of my trance once tears start building up in my eyes. Why the fuck am I like this? I'm so damn sensitive. Great, another flaw. I throw my phone on my bed and scream into my pillow, which gives me comfort, knowing my face is hidden from everything and everyone. I cry and cry and cry while thinking to myself: "stupid flaws, stupid social media, stupid me." My vision starts to get blurry and my mind seems to become blank, the voices becoming louder. Which voices? You might ask. The voices, telling me to end it, that I'm nothing, that I need to stop and that nobody would miss me anyway. I'm hurting, I'm hurting real bad. My brain feels like it's getting eaten up by the voices piece by piece. I know I can't control these voices, and I certainly know they can't hear me, but I'm still whispering some barely understandable words, something like "please, please stop. it hurts. Please." But it's all covered in my sobs, and my knowledge that the voices don't care. With shaky steps I get up from my bed, while every item in my room is blurry and twisted. I walk up to my desk and pull out a drawer. In there, there's a few old magazines, on the first look, nothing special. But I quickly throw the magazines aside, to reveal what's really inside. A little box. My hands are shaking and my breathing is ragged, but somehow I manage to grab the box and open it up. In there is a little blade which I took out of my sharpener 3 years ago. I take the little blade out of the box and sit back down on the bed, the voices louder than before. One deep breath, Eliana. One deep breath. But nothing can hold me back, once the voices reach a certain volume. I quickly lift up my sleeves, same as the little blade. A single tear falling onto it. I place it on my skin. I drag it. And repeat. Again. Again. Again and again, until my arm is filled with cuts, yet again. But this isn't something new. I'm used to this sight by now. I feel satisfied. The voices seemed to have calmed down, just like me. Self harm is a drug. The most addictive one on this earth. After staring at the freshly made cuts for a moment, I pull down my sleeves and lay down on my bed, quietly sobbing myself to sleep, while thinking about how much of a misery I am.