I stand over the sink, and a shiver runs through me as I hold the blade against my skin. I hesitate for a moment, making sure nobody is behind me before I slide the cold metal across my wrist.
I sigh in relief when I see red well up from the indent, then spill down my arm. It's not very deep, but deep enough to draw the sweet, metallic liquid from my body.
Thoughts rush through my mind, and I can't help but to scrunch my nose and eyes. I pull the knife across my arm again and again until I'm calm enough to relax for just a moment.
I lean against the counter, and slam the serrated knife down against the marble.
"You have suicidal thoughts, don't you?" He asked me.
Yes, I do. But that doesn't mean that I try to end my life. It doesn't mean that I purposely try to kill myself. I just wait and hope, not caring if something happens to me. Not caring if I die, not caring if one day I don't wake up.
I'm miserable. There's nothing that can fix it, not a hug, not someone saying that it's going to get better. I'm on a dark road, and one that darkens with every step I take.
Nobody can help me, not a therapist, not a friend or family member. I've already tried all of those.
Only cutting lessens the pain when it's almost too much to handle. Crying shows weakness, but not if I'm alone.
Alone. That's the only time when I feel safe.
I finish washing the dishes, and glance at the knife once more. I don't pick it up, but I think about it for the rest of the day.
