The Death Of Me

Chapter 1

I was screaming all alone in the darkness of my room. I hate myself. I can only feel the beating of my heart, at this point. I found my phone and turned it off. I don’t want to deal with any bullshit. My parents are gone for the week, finally. Summer is here and I’m just glad no one can see me.

Life is dark, I like dark. My name is Ever-Grace, and I’m suicidal. The thoughts of death run through my head constantly. I have my own dark world of me. My hair is black and my bangs cover my face. My dad thinks I’m trying to hide my “beauty” from the world, What beauty? Nothing is beautiful. I have bright green eyes that I smother in eyeliner. My mom thinks that I hate my face, I honestly do. The pain of a knife or a blade cutting my skin is beautiful to me. That’s the only thing that is truly beautiful to me. And here I go again, I’m screaming. Screaming at the top of my lungs in the middle of the night. The neighbors are used to it now, hopefully.  Five minutes go bye and I’m still screaming, it seems to be getting louder and louder. Ten minutes go bye and I’m finally out of breath.  

I’m 15 and I’m like this... This isn’t normal. I scream out to the emptiness of my house “I’m not normal!” I look over at the clock; it’s  2:30 am. I run my fingers over my new cuts, I smile through my tears and think,“This is beautiful.”

Music. I like music. I walk over to my laptop and turn on some slow music. Don’t check FaceBook, I tell myself. Don’t do it. I listened to myself and I didn’t do it. Myself. I only listen to myself anymore. I sit back down in my dark corner, and start crying. Crying, again? I’m not even in control of myself anymore. I didn’t tell myself to start crying. I found my lamp and turned it on. I walked over to my mirror and I see the tear stains on my face and shirt. I see the blood stains on my arms and hands.

Reflection. This isn’t my reflection, it can’t be. The girl in the mirror is so torn apart and upset looking. This can’t be me. This girl is not me. I scream at my reflection, “Who the hell are you?! And what have you done to me?! Murderer! Murderer!” I fall down on my knees and whisper, “ Murderer”.

Murderer. The person in the mirror has murdered me. That wasn’t me in that mirror, or was it? Was it just a torn apart, demolished, half-dead, repulsive me? I lift myself off the ground and walk back over to the mirror. I touch the reflection and realize that the person in the mirror is me, but not the strong me. It’s the me that no one needs to see, the me no one knows about, the me I hate, the me I need to kill.

Kill. Killing is such a harsh word, and such a harsh action. But I need to kill the person that is my reflection. I hate who I’ve become. I’m murdering my happiness slowly and painfully. My happiness, it’s like in a coma. It’s there and alive it just doesn’t work. There’s two mes? That’s not normal either. Well from the looks of it none of me is normal. Normal. What is normal, anyways? No cuts? Happiness that works? Not hiding yourself from the world? What is “normal”?

I look at the clock, it’s 4:00 am. I need sleep. Sleep. I don’t get much of that stuff, much anymore. Hmm, I wonder why. Is it because of the nightmares? Is it because of the panic attacks or the mental breakdowns? I can’t figure out why I’m like this. I mean my parents are fighting a lot, I lost all my friends over rumors, I had a good relationship that lasted for two and a half years that ended recently. Maybe that’s it. All of this is why, or is it?

Chapter 2           I slept. I slept until about 8:30 am. Food. I need food now. I go downstairs and make some cereal and toast. I need to wash this dried blood off of my arms and hands before I eat, this is nasty. I wash up, then sit down and eat. What am I going to do today? Today? I’m still thinking about last night, that was scary. My cuts sting, ugh I hate that. The pain they make initially is good, but the after sting sucks. How many are there? 1... 2...7... 10... 11... 18... 20... 24... 26... 26 cuts? That’s a new record.