Thirty Days

Oηє;; Aρяιℓ 21ѕт 2012

"Ƴσυ'яє α νιcтιм σƒ уσυя σωη мιη∂."

The music is roaring through the monstrous speaker I had gotten for my thirteenth birthday. Right around the time the voices started. I'd seen it in an electronics store, and knew it was just the thing to drown it out.

My poor mother bangs on my bedroom door, her palms slamming aginst the hard wood. I turn the music up louder, pretending I can't hear her. The song switches to All Time Low, and I stare at my wall before turning my head and staring at myself in the vanity mirror attatched to my desk. I shake my head at the reflection. When did I become so pathetic?

Keeping the music at a constant eardrum bursting loud makes that nagging voice leave me alone. Blocking it out by doing something else stopped working. Then again, it never really did.

She wants you to eat, it says, slipping in. Will you?

I shake my head at myself. If I do, it will keep me up at night telling me I am fat, too fat, and that I should die. Then, I'll be so disgusted with myself I'll throw it all up.

"Jane Marie! Open this door right now!" my mother screams. Fear is beginning to creep into her voice. I don't blame her. She found me after the last attempt. Still, I can only roll my eyes at her antics. She's being over dramatic, I think, as I turn the music up louder, finally hitting max volume. I flop onto my bed and close my eyes.

When she finds my body, I think, it will go a lot like this.

The thought doesn't bring up the pang of guit and sadness that it usually brings up. Instead, it is replaced with a feeling I can almost call giddiness. I will finally be free of it all. Finally free of the pain. The people at school. My parents. Everyone. I couldn't wait to finally be out of this mess. I couldn't wait until people wouldn't have to be bothered by me ever again.

"Jane, god dammit! If you're cutting again I swear!"

The sharp slaps of her palms were getting louder, more frantic. The threats were coming now. I'll take this, I won't let you do that, no going here, no going there. They never worked. I never went anywhere.

I look at the dresser seeing the blade I keep there, hidden with duct tape painted white on the wall. The last time I didn't put it away quite right, and peeking out of the corner of the tape was the corner of the blade, the metal glinting in the light. I take the blade out from under the tape, playing with it for a few minutes, debating. I'd been clean for a week tomorrow.

Of course you should, Jane. Why wouldn't someone as fat, ugly, and worthless like you not want to cut?

I give my head a slight nod, agreeing with the voice, before realzing how completely stupid I am to be nodding at something that is just me. Me attacking myself, me yelling at myself. How fucked up am I?

Even though I didn't really want to, there was no immediate reason that I would, the thought was still implanted in my head and now I didn't know if I would be able to not cut. Of course, I should. I am ugly, worthless, fat piece of shit. So, without a second thought, I bring the blade up to my wrist. First, I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood so I know how hard to press for the most relieving cuts. Second, I lay the blade against the best part for deep, bubbly, fatty, cuts - just before the elbow - and press down. Third, I squeeze my eyes shut, take a deep breath, and, just as I exhale, roughly pull the blade down my arm.

The scarlett blood drips down my wrist and off my elbow. Three drops fall in a quick succession onto my white bedroom blanket. I curse, flipping it over so my mother doesn't see it if she comes in. I throw my red sweater on, the blood sticking my arm to the sleeve. I cut the music, mid way through my mothers banging on the door.