Monster

chapter seven - breathe

" pain is the only thing that makes me feel alive."

Their hurtful, demeaning words made its own twisted way into my mind, and I could just imagine them saying it over and over again. I could always remember the flashbacks of my dreadful past every single day. In my nightmares, it gradually grew louder and louder until I couldn't handle the agonising, throbbing pain in my head. The ache in my heart only grew as I remembered that it was the truth. Numbness tingled through my body, and I let the pain take me away from my shattered reality.

Weak.

Pathetic.

Worthless.

Ugly.

Fat.

I was all that wasn't I? I couldn't exactly deny it; it was all true, in my mind. They've said it so much to the point that I act like I don't care, and then I remember the words they cut me with, and there it goes again. Their words, like sharp knives, pierced through my heart with every insult that they made up. The demons flitted around, dark and brooding, and my body moved to its own accord as something unknown controlled my movements.

Those thoughts.

I've done it many times, and although I know it's wrong, I couldn't stop. It is like a drug addiction. Once you start, you can't stop. Their words, once again, rang in my head, as I brought the sharp object to my skin. The stinging pain was a relief to mine. Once again, the voices rang in my mind, reminding me of the memories that I couldn't escape.

I deserve this. Worthless, pathetic and weak. Who would ever want me? Care for me?

With that, I made the first, stinging cut, quickly and gracefully. A presence made itself known as it controlled everything I did. This is the first time I've cut since I escaped, and I know that it's wrong, but I can't stop. It's the only form of relief I have from the voices in my head. Even then, they couldn't leave me alone. They let me succumb to the darkness as the demon grew so enormously that it was impossible to eliminate.

At this point, I believed that no one would want me, and I deserve to be hurt, because I've hurt so many other people. I hurt the people around me, and so, I deserve to feel the pain. I felt the stinging pain from the cut as a small trickle of blood dripped from the orifice in my skin. However, I didn't mind it. I liked the pain, I liked the way the blood poured out of the wounds. Hell, I loved it.

No matter how preposterous and peculiar it may seem to some, it was my escape. I made another, followed by another, and another. Lines of blood trickled down my arm, as I ignored the liquid dripping on the pristine white bathroom tiles. This, the pain I felt, brought me relief. You may think I'm insane for doing this, but it is what it is. The sting of the razor against my skin only brought me a tranquillising feeling that I loved.

A few minutes passed, and I looked at the line of cuts that were littered across my arm, that had brought me relief and satisfaction. A tear leaked from the corner of my eye, dripping on my already bloody arm, making the tingling sensation burn as if it was set on fire. I liked it, however, and wanted to bring more harm to myself. I wanted to feel the pain, willingly.

The cabinet was still open, and I saw a bottle of rubbing alcohol, still intact, although it was only half full. I went over to the sink, and poured a little bit of the alcohol onto the cuts, fiendishly liking the way it felt, the irritation of the cuts burning painfully. The lines went horizontally across the tender skin of my wrists, once again covering the other cicatrix that already stained my arm.

I smiled, although I knew, deep down, that this twisted way of relief was wrong. I had no parents, no friends, no one who cares about me. Of course, sometimes I craved for the love from someone, because how could someone live in a world full of self hatred and fear? The shadows surrounded everything else, shrouding the once white tiles, into one that shone with darkness.