Let Me Slit My Wrists

Chapter Two

That day when I got home, I was greeted in by the stench of alcohol. Not the same kind Nurse Tiff used. I hung my coat over the pleather chair near the doorway, sighing rather loudly. I glanced at my mother who was passed out sloppily on the couch. At least four bottles of beer surrounding her. I quietly snuck past her down the hall, quickly going upstairs. Dad's at work again. I thought to myself, entering into my dark room. The smell of alcohol dissolved in my room. It smelled like nothing. Good.
I plopped down on my bed after tossing my bag off into my chair light blue, beanbag chair. That chair was pretty old, I noticed. The seams were popping out and the color was faded in some areas. I got that chair when was ten. My dad got it for me as a Christmas present. That seemed so long ago....mom wasn't a drunk. Dad didn't work as much. My older brother visited more often.
But things have changed so much. No one cares anymore. Not even me.
I look down at the gauze on my arm, suddenly remembering that redhead girl that busted in. That girl was strange. Best not to think too much about her. I shook my head, trying to focus my attention else where. I began to wonder on how to go. Yes go. Die. I had always wondered about it. But I thought it'd be better just to stick to cutting. I enjoyed slitting softly into my pale, willing flesh. It didn't hurt. It felt relieving. Like an anti-depressant or maybe even weed. But I don't smoke so I couldn't really compare that.
Thinking of it then I had to find something sharp. I hid a pair of scissors in my drawer so dad wouldn't find it and take it away like the others. He doesn't understand I need this. I need the sweet, red relief.
I take the scissors from my drawer, sitting back on my bed. Without hesitating I swiftly slashed the sharp edge of the knife into my wrist, not to deep. I repeated it again, feeling the hot, red liquid begin to spill out of the shallow wound. I let out a deep breath, so relaxed. It only took two cuts this time to calm me. I dropped the scissors, laying back on bed, staring at the ceiling. The stress in my blood leaked out slowly, staining my bed covers. I shut my eyes softly, peacefully falling asleep, knowing my scars on my wrists helped me to feel this rested.