1000 Words

Blades

(Trigger Warning. This does involve cutting and blood. This isn't the cliche cutting scene. This is actually something I've experienced. I did add other fictional elements because it is a story. I'm not just writing this so you can pity me. I wrote this cause I wanted to share how others feel and that not everyone has a crappy life for something like this to happen. There are different reasons and factors for different people. Why is it understandable for a abused or rich girl/boy to do it, but not a middle class girl/boy. Abused girls/boys go through a lot of pain also, yes. I'm not saying their lives aren't hard. But if you think of a rich girl/boy you can also understand what they go through. Or even the popular girl/boy. I've seen many stories where they go through stuff and it's understandable. Why not for someone considered normal though? Someone who isn't rich or poor, has a few friends, does after school stuff, etc. I wanted to show everyone something different. So I wrote about my own feelings. It was hard. I honestly cried the whole time, but if it helps out someone then I've done my part. I've debated whether to post this or not. So if you're seeing it, well I finally did it. This story was 1067 words minus this part. I needed it to be longer so I could have everything I needed to get the point across. Hope my feelings are gotten acrossed clearly.)

Why is it that I can sit here and contemplate life but not sort my own?

Why is it that I get joy from hurting myself, from hurting others?

Why is it that my desk drawer is filled with blades, blades I use often?

My whole body is full of the thoughts I have, the pain I've felt.

It's not that my family life is bad, it's that it's not perfect and I'm not perfect.

Not every single person that goes through this is in some crappy abusive family. Or has been physically torn apart.

It can be anything. I don't understand why people feel like your life has to be complete and utter crap to feel that you have to do what I do.

I broke out of my thoughts and looked down at my arm.

Why can't I be perfect?

Why can't I be what they want me to be?

I dropped my head onto my desk. The tears slid freely down my face and I didn't try to stop them.

My thoughts raced in my head, memories slipping in and out of my mind's eye.

The questions that tortured me day after day after day.

I looked up towards my mirror, the glass glinting from the moonlight of my open window. The face that stared back at me always confused me.

How my friends and parents saw it as pretty scared me.

They all lied.

Everyone does.

I pushed my chair away from my desk. The sound breaking me out of the trance I was in. My hand hovered near the beckoning desk drawer. My heart was pounding as I thought of opening the drawer.

I dropped my hand and turned away. I threw myself onto my bed and stared up at my ceiling.

Day after day I do the same process. I stand near my drawer and just think, just think about how it would take my mind off things. I don't do it to take the pain away because let's be honest we can't act like it doesn't hurt.

No. I use the pain as a distraction.

To distract from all the thoughts I have. I know I'm not the most beautiful, intelligent person out there.

I know this!

I punched my pillow in frustration.

I know this.

I looked down at my pillow.

My pillow was filled with my thoughts from at night. All the bad dreams I've had, all of the good ones. I sighed.

I dropped back down again. The tears were fighting to come out. I squeezed my eyes shut to hold them in.

A tear slid down my face.

I tried to fight my tears. Just like I do with everything else. But I guess I'm the one that is always getting knocked out.

My mind was starting to go blank. If I don't think, if I don't feel. I won't cry and I won't have to understand why I'm like this.

I tried to smile. I could still feel the tears.

I reached under my pillow for the envelope I always keep.

Inside was a letter.

A goodbye letter.

It told them what I felt, but I couldn't tell them why. I have thrown many a papers away trying to tell them why I felt this way and why I did it.

They never understand though.

My friends have made jokes about my arms not realising that it's true and that I think about what they say everyday.

My parents have yelled at me saying there is way worse out there. My life is great.

So, I let everyone think my life is great. I told everyone the scars were from exploding pottery, cooking mishaps, great athletic feats. I kept a smile on my face and it would eventually become real.

But at night, it would come crumbling down. I would feel the tears fall down my face. All my thoughts would rush together.

Even during the day at times. Doing what I love could make me snap. I tell them I'm sick, that I don't feel well.

In reality it's something they would never understand.

I sat up on my bed and stared at my drawer. I walked to it, crying even harder.

I still had the envelope grasped in my hand. My other hand hovered near the drawer.

Before I even thought about it, I tore the drawer open and threw it's contents on the floor.

Knives and razors of all sorts tumbled out and were scattered about my room. Bandages and wipes were laying around as I dropped to my knees.

My face was buried in my hands and I sat there.

I looked around myself and grabbed a razor. I stared down at my leg, already bandaged from the other night.

I put it near my skin and everyone flashed before my eyes. I slid it across my leg.

I grimaced and felt pain shoot through me. I bit my lip and did another deep gash across. I whimpered and looked down at my leg. Blood was coming out smoothly and I grabbed a wipe that sat near me.

I covered it and stared out my window. The sun was starting to come up and I knew it was almost time to get ready.

I lifted it up and grabbed a tissue and some alcohol. I poured the alcohol in the tissue and set it on my leg.

I winced at the burn and drew my hand back quickly. Blood was still coming and I put my hand back down again.

After five minutes of sitting there, I grabbed a bandage and another wipe. I wiped the cuts and set the bandage down on my leg.

The tears had finally stopped and now my mind was truly blank.

I picked up the drawer and set it back inside my desk along with all of its contents. The envelope I had clutched in my hand was now carelessly thrown across the room. I crawled to it and set it back underneath my pillow.

As soon as I finished cleaning, my alarm went off. I stood up and decided to ignore the pain, something I was already used to. I grabbed some jean capri's and pulled them on. 

My mom opened the door.

"I should've known you were up."

I gave her a smile and laughed. "What would be the point of the alarm then?"