Red Sam

Here I Stand

I looked out my window, down at my arms, and back up to the window. I tried as best as I could to remember everything I learned in therapy, but it escaped my mind. I told myself I was stronger than this. I sat, shaky hands as I let my Neil Diamond record spin and spin. His words soothed me, calmed me down, as I resited the urge to break my whole month of being self-harm clean. Why did that "clean days" number even matter? You get a pat on your back from your shrink and your friends congratulate you. I don't see why it's so important.

My legs almost wouldn't move as I made my way to my big brown dresser.

The feeling of a blade against my skin wasn't new. I almost couldn't feel it. It didn't give me the sensation that it used to.

I heard a knock on the door, so i quickly wiped up my arm, threw on a long sleeve robe and headed down stairs.

I expected it to be the mailman, or a Jehovah's Witness, but instead, a tall figure wearing a red trenchcoat with the hood covering his or her face stood waiting.

I slowly opened the door, hoping that this person wasn't some serial killer or rapist. The door was opened, but the figure didn't move. Instead, he asked,

"Can I come in?"

I nodded my head, not wanting to speak.

"Who are you?" I asked once they sat down.

"Sam."

"Why are you here?"

"I am the truth"

I figured this guy, as I identified by his deep voice was either very high or very drunk, so I asked him to leave, but he wouldn't move.