Alegretto

Preview

Many people remind me that the scars still ghost their arms.  That even though they stopped long ago, they once still existed - still prominently showed through their paper-thin skin.  It's said so that I don't feel alone for having once self-harmed.  That I'm not insane.  Everyone does it at some point in their lives.

I guess it's just frustrating to me because I can't see the scars that I once dug into my arms, my wrists.

They're all covered in new ones.

How do people stop from an addiction? some people ask.  There's a scientific way to answer that, full of charts and graphs and diagrams only created so that a mythical emotion called "belief" will be stimulated from brains so that the person presenting the information will feel more comfortable.  Stupid, really, belief is.  It's a more immature form of judgement.

And what would the doctors say if I showed them the scars?  Well, I know that now.  They will just refer me to a psychologist.  They will begin to convince themselves what I have is not real, but merely psychological, out of their conserved little box of study.  They will begin to believe their very own theories, and will start taking it as the truth.  This is what is wrong with society...but yet no one can change it.  People would basically be asked to stop their judgement and just accept everything and everyone, regardless of their mistakes or wrong-doings.  This is incorrect as well.  Judgement keeps us safe.  We must instead strive for a happy medium.

But who would listen to the philisophical preachings of a fifteen-year-old girl with cuts in her mind and on her skin?  Who would listen to a mentally unsound child, not even able to drive herself places or take care of herself...who would listen to a person with battle scars created only from fighting themself?

Everyone thinks they know better, and so we stumble along blindly, careless about our actions on others.  Eyes closed.  Mind narrowed.  It doesn't matter anymore.  

So people like me - people who spend their time searching desperately for a higher understanding of what's going on, why everything is happening, and who we are...

People like me end up like me.  Sitting in the corner with their glasses case open, glancing at their palm, feeling the tears but not feeling them fall, not feeling where they stemmed from, razor blade in hand, wrist bleeding, feeling alone and insane at the same time.

That isn't good for society, either.

I watch the red trickle down the side of my wrist, contrasting both sickeningly and splendidly with the pale golden surface.  Watch it slink down to my elbow slowly, slower than the tears on my face, but I can feel this.  I can feel the sharpness; I can feel my anger alleviating.  I sigh in relief and slide my fingers softly over the blade, feeling the cool sensation but not the biting pain, just to rub off what little skin and blood is left over, and slide the blade back into the case.  Then I close it, hide it, and just sit for awhile.  Watching.  Analyzing.  Listening.

"Are you okay?"

The first voice is a mere murmur, but I hear it clearly.  I hear it because there's no need to make sure if I mistook it or not.  It's just inside my mind, and nobody else is in my mind but me.

"I will be," I whisper back, and feel my words catch in my throat as they come out, pulling jaggedly.  

The voice responds, but this time, it's paired with another.  One male, one female.  I recognize the female one, but I can't quite put my finger on it.  It could be from the one time I remember my great-grandmother speak.  I'm not sure, though.

"Do you feel better now that you've gone and self-harmed yourself again?"

I sigh, and wipe my eyes a little with my sweatshirt sleeve. "A bit," I admit regretfully. "I just had to get rid of the anger.  I've decided I'm going to slowly stop myself by only doing it when I'm really mad.  Because there's no need to take my own anger out on anyone else but myself."