Words That Cut Too Deep

Chapter 1

Natalie-Two months earlier

I pumped the volume a little louder, and Paramore drowned out the noise from downstairs. I didn't want to hear my parents, who, as usual, were screaming at each other. Did they not realize that they had a daughter upstairs who didn't want to hear it? Their voices escalated. I thought my eardrums would burst if I put my music any louder, so I walked out of my room.

In the hallway, their arguing was ridiculously loud. If you could even count it as an "argument". It wasn't even a conversation. It was an exchange of shrieks, remarks that flew through the air like knives.

"Put it DOWN!" My mother screeched, probably talking about the whiskey that was undoubtedly in my father's hand.

"NO!" My father bellowed. I heard something glass being shattered.

"NOW LOOK WHAT YOU"VE DONE!" My mother wailed. My father's laugh was slurred.

"Why don't you get Cameron to clean it up?" He mocked. Those words were a jagged slice through my heart and mom's. If my father had been sober, it would've done the same to him. Bringing up Cameron was a taboo.

"YOU BASTARD!" I heard more glass shattered. I sprinted into the bathroom and, as a necessaryprecaution, locked the door. Not that they would ever break it up long enough to check on me. As if they actually cared. Images, always suppressed until my few private moments, flashed through my mind like a slide show from Hell. My father, sober, picking me up from school. Driving to the hospital in terrified silence. Rushing towards my mother in the waiting room. Being allowed to see my brother for the first time in days. Seeing him, still and frail on the thin hospital bed. The doctor telling us about the heroin OD. My parents sobbing hysterically for hours when they decided to pull the plug. My own wailing as I gripped my brother''s hand in a death grip as his heart stopped.

I moaned. It was too much. It was overwhelming me. I opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out my razor. I rolled up my left sleeve and inspected my forearm. The jagged scars circled my arm like a tangled web, threatening at any moment to catch me in its clutches. A fairly new cut, near my inner elbow, glared up in a pulsing furious crimson. The rest of my scars were various shades of brown, yellow and white. I lowered the razor to the new cut and pressed.

Tiny pricks of blood blossomed on my skin. My mind became clear and focused. I exhaled in relief. The pain was perfect.

Most people shy away from pain. They fear the aspect of anything uncomfortable. I welcomed pain with open arms. It pushed away everything else and freed me of my burdens, my grief, my sorrows.