The blood just kept seeping from my wrist.
"Fuck." I thought to myself. I lifted my body off the ground and made my way to the kitchen. I grabbed peroxide and a rag that appeared to be half clean. It didn't matter if it was or wasn't, I was losing too much blood. I threw the peroxide on the open wound & pressed down on it with the rag. I walked back to my room where the incident occurred. My body fluids stained so much of the place. I grabbed a mop and tried to clean most of it up with my free hand. I did as much cleaning as my soul could take. After a while my eyes just got annoyed from seeing so much blood, and the smell of it didn’t help the process either. I decided to alter my bed spread as well, dark red blood wasn't a good look for them so I put them in the washer. Then I just laid on the floor. My wrist had finally stopped bleeding. It's weird, I had cut for so long, years actually but the one time I try to do a tiny self-inflicted scar, a big mess like this occurs. I stared at my arm and looked at all the other massacres I'd created. By now they’re had to be at least thirty-four cuts in my skin. My mind started reminiscing back to the first time I'd decided to take a razor to myself.
I was in the living room watching TV. I remember it like yesterday. I was laughing my ass off watching "Bob's Burgers". Then my mom approached me with the facial expression of bad news. She looked like she was ready to shatter into a million pieces. Like she was dying inside.
"What's wrong?" I'd asked her.
She explained to me in the best way a person could tell a seventeen year old that their father was never coming back home again. Not like a divorce, which would have actually been a lot easier to take, but like death.
My father had died fighting for our country in a war. He was in Iran and jumped in front of a bomb to save two of his fellow soldiers. Only one of the two survived, which is a miracle itself. The explosive completely destroyed my father’s body.
In fact, at his funeral it looked like a whole different person was in his casket. My dad was my hero, my whole heart to be honest. So when he died I took it very hard. Therefore I started drinking. Every morning before school I’d have a shot or two of alcohol. My mom is a big time drinker so let's just say she never noticed when a bottle of her Hennessey went missing. In the beginning alcohol helped me numb the pain; it also made school go by a hell of a lot smoother. At the time no one knew what I was doing. I was very great at controlling myself when under the influence, if I’d say so myself. Then one day I drank a little too much. Let's just say, I went to school really wasted, like the type of drunk where u throw up on your teachers brand new shoes, then feel so bad afterwards that you try to kiss him because when your drinking you tend to think everyone needs a little more affection in their life. Anyway, that incident went down in my Psychology class which for some odd reason has a lot of Caucasian kids. Later that week I was walking down the halls in my own world and a girl with fairly pale skin, that I recognized from that class pulled me to the side and began striking up a conversation with me.
"I heard about your um.. incident. " She said with a smirk.
I covered my face in embarrassment. "yeah things happen" I replied in a subtle manner.
"Why do you care though?"
"Well, I was thinking you were the type of person who likes to try new things".
She winked.
"What do you mean?"
"You can't quite catch a hint can you?" She laughed.
I looked at her with the most puzzled face.
She grabbed my hand and slipped white pills in my palms in the most secretive manner.
"This time it's free. Next time it'll cost. I'll see you around"
She smiled then hurried away in the other direction.
I looked at the pills for a quick second then shoved them deep into my pockets as fast as possible.
