The Band Boy

The Scars

" Fucking emo." Someone spat at me, shoving me into metal lockers. My back hit the metal as i fell to the ground, the hinges of the doors scraping me up.

I winced in pain as i made an attempt to get up. When i decided not to, and stay on the floor of  a crowded hallway next to my locker, with my best friend next to me.

I sat in silence, staring at my scared wrists. I didn't want this, but the temptation pulled me in so easily. Whenever i feel as if my life was going nicely, or i had shown potential in anything, my hopes had been washed down the drain, by none other than my father.

He wasn't an alcoholic, and he didn't drink all night and get massive hangovers in the morning, resulting with my beatings. Even though i dogded the physical abuse, i could never seem to escape his words. 

He made me believe that i wasn't worthy of life, as if i were just a corner of the universe. All my life he told me i wasn't good enough for anything.

When i was eight, i took gymnastics, and after every competition he said ' Ive seen better '. 

At the age of twelve, i tried something more academic. I did a lot of spelling-bees, geography-bees, and got on honor roll. He still told me i wasn't smart enough.

At thirteen, i finally found what i loved. I got involved with music. For years i had listened to it, praising it. Now, i would be part of it. I saved all the money i made from babysitting my neighbors, and chores i did for them, and holiday gifts, and got myself a guitar. Then, i didn't have enough money for a proper six string, so I got the cheapest one: a black-red secondhand bass. I got it and practiced all the time, using tabs off of my computer. I joined the school band, who had made adjustments for me.

For months i kept it in the school's band room, using their equippment to learn. I never told my dad until we had a concert. Adrenaline pumped through my veins for weeks until the school concert; I knew this would be the one thing i did that would make him proud. 

It didn't. 

When he found out that i spent " all this money " on a " worthless piece of crap " he coud never be happy about it. He told me that it was a useless hobby, and that i would never be able to make it as a musician. He tried to convince me it was a waste of time, just like he said i was.

When he criticized my music, i finally lost it. He could say all he wanted about sports and education, but music was just too far. 

That was the first night i held the blade to my skin. The cold touch felt right, digging into my vulnerable skin. I felt that nothing could really hurt me anymore. It solved my problems.

A few days later, i found myself thinking of the feel of the blade against my wrist. I sat there in my room, knife on my desk, contemplating whether or not i should tear into my skin.

It wasn't just telling me i wasted my time, he was telling me i could never amount to anything. The hate kept coming every time i saw him. What pained me the most is that he did this all on his own. There was no alcohol that i could blame it on. No addiction. 

He honestly and sincerely believed i was worthless, useless, good for nothing. My father, the only person in the world, aside from my mother, who was supposed to believe in me, was my biggest hater. I had no mom to change my perspective of myself. I always believed what my father told me.

A sharp bell drew me away from my thoughts. Kat, the girl next to me, stood up hastily, helping me up too. 

" Ready for another day of hell to start?" She asked like it was saying Goodmorning.

" No. But do i have any options." what does my opinion mean anyways i silently added, shuffling to class.

I pulled my black sleeves over my wrists as a cheap attempt to cover the scars. Im ready for school.

As ready as i'll ever be.