I need to do it again. I have to. I can't think of any other way. Besides Mr. Collins told us in Health class last week that teens do it all the time. Now all I need is a knife sharp enough. I think there's still one in my desk from that art project I was doing last week. I've visited this stupid counsellor who always wants me to talk about how I feel about my parents' divorce, but honestly, I have no feelings about it, it just happened. They always fought, and made it seem like they didn't give a shit about me. They made the last three months of my life hell.
As I reached my bed, I pulled up the sleeves of my new American Eagle shirt, and looked at my forearms, all scarred and rough from years of my parents arguing. Slowly I slide the knife out of it's encasing, and when i heard the "click click click" of the blade emerging, I knew it was what I wanted to do. I moved the tip of the blade to my forearm and pressed it against my skin, applying to much pressure, and slowly moving the blade across my arm, leaving a long scarlet ribbon of blood. This is too deep, it's just gonna cause my problems if I don't stich it up. Shit, why am I so stupid sometimes? I need to get to the hospital, but dude, that felt amazing.
I quickly left my room grabbing my wallet and car keys, and stopping my the bathroom cupbord to grab a cloth. I ran out the door slamming it behind me as I ran down the steps towards my new 2003 blue Mustang. I quickly back out of the driveway and sped down the road toward the hospital.
"Crap!" I shouted, "Ugh, why the hell do I always have to grab a white cloth. Now I have to make up another story about why I cut myself in my room. Dad's never gonna believe me."
I pulled quickly into the parking lot, jumped out of the car, and made my way over to the Emergancy Entrance. As I entered, I took a quick glance to see who was all in the waiting room so I could guess how long I'd be waiting to get the stupid stitches. I walked over to the reception desk and searched through my wallet for my health card.
"Can I help you?" asked the nurse at the desk.
"Uh, yeah. I think I'm gonna need stiches for this," I replied as I removed the cloth from my arm.
"You're most likely going to need stitches. Can I please see your health card?" she asked, still observing my deep incision.
"Yeah, here," I said handing her the green piece of plastic.
After standing there for a minuto I turned around to get a better look at who was actually in the waiting room. I noticed a middle-aged mother with her son who was probably 3 or 4, and this girl I recognized from school or something.
Hope you guys like it, I'll try and get some more up tomorrow.
