Cut My Wrist And Hope To Die

Small choice, Big consequences

I held my father's small razorblade in the palm of my hand. I stared at it for a moment before gently picking it up, using my thumb and pointer finger. I looked down at my exposed wrist and thought, did I really want to do this? Would it really make the pain go away?

Emotional and mental pain always seemed to hurt more than physical pain. I had just recently learned that. Until a few months ago I had been the sticks-and-stones-may-break-my-bones-but-words-will-never-hurt-me type of person. Technically I was correct. Sticks and stones would break my bones but words would never hurt me.

Words didn't hurt. Words slowly and silently tore me apart from the inside until I was mentally exhausted and could no longer stop myself from brushing off what the other girls said. Actually, it was more what they didn't say. They never complimented me, never returned a greeting, never answered my questions. At some points I was certain I didn't exist and this was all some cruel alternate reality and at any moment I would wake up into a world were people cared. Cared enough to say hi to me. Cared enough to answer a question.

Finally I underatood. This wasn't an alternate universe. This was real life, packed full of horrors and lies and all other "wonderful" suprises.

Before I could think any longer about actually doing something to my wrist I heard my mother's car pull into the driveway. I quickly slipped the small blade into my pocket and ran downstairs to greet my mother at the door. I may be dying internally but I still had to remain happy for the sake of others.

My mom quickly brushed past me muttering a quick "How was school?" before running into the kitchen to start dinner. I ignored her question and walked back upstairs to my room. I collapsed onto my bed and stared at all the random posters adorning my walls. Tokyo Ghoul...Attack on Titan...Black Butler...Fairytail...I was quite fond of anime and manga. Not that anyone cared. I glanced across my room at my small window sill garden. It consisted of two cactus and some unknown plant from the dollar bin at the supermarket.

I stared at my ceiling. On it were those weird plastic stars that glow in the dark. I remembered how when I first got them I had wanted to make some cool design out of the differnt sized stars. I had left them on my desk when I left for school but when I returned they were gone. I was just about to run downstairs to tell my mom that, once again, Bobby, my little brother, had taken my stuff. Then I noticed the ceiling.

My mother had taken all of my stars, all of them, and used them to spell out my name. Then with the leftover ones she had just randomly scattered them all over my ceiling. I was horrified. I had wanted so very badly to make my own design with them and my mother had just used them all up to put my name on my ceiling, almost like she was labeling it. Noone was going to steal my ceiling that I was aware of so it really didn't need my name on it. What truly horrified me the most was the fact that my mom had used something of mine without asking.

She was always constantly telling me how I should never touch someone else's property and all that stuff and she was the one who disobeyed her own rules.

I took the blade out of my pocket and once again held it in my fingers. I looked at my exposed wrist. It needed some color. I gently pressed the blade against my skin and in one quick slicing motion made a nice little slice through my skin. I watched the small beads of blood bubble from my cut and instantly felt my mental pain drain away.

As the cut finally stopped bubbling the horror of what I had just done hit me like a sack of cement. I, Claire Hartman, had self inflicted pain upon myself just to get mental relief. Though it was quite horrible, I didn't regret a thing. Life would be okay, I was fine.

Then my mom knocked on the door. "Hey honey, dinners ready-" she said opening my door. Sadly, she didn't look the least bit shocked as she saw me, sitting on my bed staring at a small red line on my exposed wrist holding a small slightly red razorblade.