The Real One (Sequel to Her Only Wish)

The Story Begins

It begän long ågo— what am I saying, this is not the Hobbit nor is it Lord Of The Rings! It began a month-ish ago, I had just stopped scratching. After my friends read the end of my book I told them even the ending was not true, even though it was, well not the hospital part, but the part where I said the book was true, they believed me. I think.

One of them, I felt, didn't believe me. She kept saying that if I ever needed help, she would be there. That was Flo or Florange as I like to call her. She has orange dyed hair, she's really nice and really, like, really tall.

There was one that I weren't sure if she believed me and if she didn't, she was discrete. She said the same things that Florange said, but in a way that made me think she had believed my lie. Her name is Marjorie, we call her Marjo or Margo. Marjo is maximum five foot two, while I am maximum four foot eleven, she's an itty bitty little bit more diva than me and Flo, but not so much.

Maybe two days after, the first of November (I think), I had just been in a fight with my mom, which actually was just a misunderstanding, I realized that I hadn't scratched myself because of how lucky I felt, it was because I didn't like myself. I'm not talking about my body or something that can be changed easily, I'm talking about my personality, the way I acted towards other people or reacted in certain situations.

I started thinking about my life, what I should have done and what I shouldn't have done. The mental pain was too much for me and like every fourteen years old girl, I had read about self-harm and how it 'relieved pain'. I thought I could transfer my mental pain on my body, because mental pain is harder to get rid of than a physical one.

I saw my scissors laying on my desk, without thinking I took them and drew them across the skin of my right wrist. I had to pass the blade more than once to see a little bit of blood coming out of my wrist, at first it hurt, but then I felt my pulse, my heart beat, my life flowing through my veins. At that moment, I knew I was alive, I felt everything I hated of myself slowly pour out of my wrist. I felt myself pour out of my wrist.

That day was the first day I had felt alive in a long time, but it was also the day guilt took control of me.