Alegretto

Chapter One

I glanced at the clock on my side table. 3:24 AM. I shut my eyes and groaned, rolling over so I was facing towards my closet. "Why can't I get any goddamn sleep anymore," I hissed to nothing in particular. Nothing responded, of course. I narrowed my eyes at my nightlight - the only security I had right now besides myself. It had a piercing brightness to it that made me wince. Too light.




"What am I going to do?" I mumbled softly, feeling my irritation give way to deeper, more depressing emotions. I pulled my hands out from underneath the covers and examined them in the faint glow. The right wrist was perfect - pale, clean, and spotless, just like a wrist should be. But on the left one, a jagged pattern of horizontal cuts were etched into the soft skin - orderly scrapes that were almost like tally marks of my own accord. Like counting the cuts until I broke. I took my index finger and counted them slowly, one by one.




Twenty-six.




It wasn't as bad as it used to be. The cuts didn't go to my elbow like they used to, making my entire forearm like the surface of a cutting board. The section I had carved was about three inches thick, and about half the circumference of my wrist. Control lines. Battle scars.




It was as simple as that for me. I needed to prove to myself that something was physically wrong with me. But it wouldn't be nearly as simple for anyone else I told.




So I keep it to myself.




I ran my fingee across them, cherishing the sharp stinging sensation I got when I did so. A trigger. Cause and effect. Not at all like the pain in my right foreleg and knee. I can't control that like I can control this. I felt a smile blossom on my face. I finally found something I can control again.




The darkness almost seemed to give way around me, and I found myself very nearly floating on my own thoughts. Tomorrow was a Monday. I would have to go to school tomorrow. Brave another day. Another day of fake smiling and laughing. Another day of pain. Another day of judgement and lying and drama and life. I wasn't ready; I wasn't prepared. It's already three. Just a few more hours and I would have to get up, get ready, go. I can't do this.




I felt the tears brim in my eyes again, but I pushed them away. I'm done with crying. I have to be strong now. Why is so impossibly hard to be strong now?




"Sam. I...Sam, I need you to...Sam. Listen to me. I can't...you don't understand. Something's not right. Sam..."




I heard a voice again, and I winced. I would never get used to them calling my name. Wailing it. Shrieking it. I was expected to do something I didn't know enough about; couldn't handle. Just like my pain. I felt bitter hear radiate through my body, fueling my hate, turning me inward again. I grit my teeth and dug my nails into the cuts, making them scream. I need to stop this.




"Sam, I can't do this alone! Sam! Sam!"




They're not real. They're not real. They're not real. They're not real.




I shot up as I saw orange flames appear in the middle of my floor. Terror coursed through me. I kept hearing my name called, shouted, screamed. "Sam! Sam! I need you! Sam! Help me! Same!" I dug my nails in harder, fighting, battling myself. They aren't real. They aren't real.

They aren't real. They aren't real.




I saw a flash of light brunette hair, a twinkle of hazel eyes. My best friend Tessa was staring in horror at the flames that came her way, slowly, their tendrils licking towards her. I was glued to my spot. I tried shutting my eyes, knowing inside that it would really help nothing, but I couldn't. Tessa shrieked in terror as she was backed against the corner.




And I watched her burn.




The scene disappeared as soon as she did, the fire enveloping her and then evaporating completely. I felt my shoulder shaking. I forced myself to breathe again, to calm down my rapidly beating heart. It was just an illusion. It wasn't real. Tessa's fine. I just about reached for my phone when I remembered why I couldn't call her. She wasn't really talking to me. I wasn't sure why.




I slowly pried my nails away from the scars, and just started whispering to myself. "It's okay; you can handle this; it was just a nightmare; just a hallucination; it's normal for people with sleep deprivation; maybe it's your medication; you'll be fine; just calm down; Tessa's okay."




With shaky hands I twisted my hair into knots...how was I supposed to deal with this? How am I expected to handle watching the people I love die over and over again? And how can I relieve some of the emotional pain caused by such a thing happening?




I knew what, deep down inside. It only took a moment for the glasses case to be pulled carelessly from its cherished spot under my mattress, for my glasses to be strewn on my side table, for the blade to be poised. I took a deep breath.




I used to cut a lot more than I did now. When the scars would run up and down, deep, sore, angry red scrapes. But I cut on my thighs, my hips, my stomach. I didn't do that now. I'm not sure why - it would be so much easier to not have to cover them up with layers of makeup and bracelets and sweatbands. But it didn't hurt as much. It wasn't as significant, I guess.




Some people have said that people who cut stop feeling right before they start a cutting session. I can't say this about everyone, but I know that isn't true for me. It seems to me as though cutting is nearly increased pain, pain beyond compare...but that's why I do it. People cut when they need to feel. And I feel fear and disappointment and guilt before I cut, unlike other speculations. I don't want to scar myself...but I have to.




I pressed the blade onto my wrist, parallel to the ones sparkling below it. Just below the join of the hand and the arm - my trigger spot. I shifted the position in which I was sitting, inhaled deeply, and slid it across. Nothing. So I shut my eyes and dug in a little harder, let my index finger creep to the head of the razor blade, and raked it across my wrist again.




The bright, metallic pain shrieking up my veins, through my bloodstream, to my brain, to my feeling, made me sigh with contentment. So I kept going. One, two, three, four...




They got deeper. I smiled into the blade, pushing it further and further. In order to get better, you must be punished for your sins. I bit my lip and watched the blade, my hand, like an animal with a mind of its own, traveling in horizontal lines of crimson all the way down to my elbow.




And then I sat. I sat with the razor in my right palm, my knees on my bed frame, my wrist on my leg, watching. Watching the red trails of my promises drip slowly down my arm, onto my shorts and the bed and emphasizing each older scar, outlining it in a scarlett maze of bloody sorrow. Control. Confinement.




I stoop up slowly, stretching my legs, and walked to the dimly lit bathroom. I could see the scrapes more definitely now. They weren't pretty, and they made me wince. I lifted my right index finger and drew a slow line down my forearm