I looked at the piece of broken glass on the floor covered in blood. Glass is meant to be pure; I always believed that it was a symbol of something good; how you can look out of it and see everything. That is until it breaks. Until it becomes rough and dangerous. Then all of that goes away, I guess that’s what happened. I guess that’s the reason why I’m not panicking as much as I should be.
The rest of the broken glass from my photo frame lay in a pile with the picture covered in scratches. I looked down at the pool of blood surrounding me, covering me as if welcoming me somehow. I knew I needed to stop it flowing, that this is too much. But I couldn’t. I liked the way it run down my wrist and down my fingers until it hit the cold hard ground. It made me feel peaceful at the thought that all the pain inside of me was escaping through my blood. If I had any tears left I would most likely cry. Cry at what happened, cry at the scene before me, cry at the scar I was going to have to carry for the rest of my life reminding me of my one weakest moment. That’s the thing I hated most. The scar. Everyone will see, everyone will know, everyone will judge. I’ll have to hid this part of me away, the vulnerable part.
I stood up and walked towards my sink not caring that the blood was now dripping onto my white rug. Things can be replaced. I washed of the blood and closed up my wound. Walking back into my bedroom I looked at the mess in front of me. I looked at the photo frame, broken unlike the person looking back at me smiling at me. I looked at the blood and the big piece of glass. I didn’t want to die. At that moment in time, I never wanted to die. I wanted to forget, to make the pain go away, to make the memories go away. But I never wanted to give up the fight and surrender. Sure, it is easy, but nothing in life is easy. Why should death be different?
For the first time that week I smiled. I looked down at my bandaged wrist, at the mess on the floor and smiled. I took my time cleaning up everything, putting everything back together and make it look like it used to. Thing is nothing will be normal. Nothing will ever be the same, and I will have the scar to remind me all the time. But it won’t remind me about the bad that happened, about the blood that I shed. It will remind me that I did not give up. That I carried on. That I was broken and I put myself back together.
