The Pained Ones
Chapter One
Just a little scratch, he thought to himself. Only enough to bleed... only enough to burn...
He had gone through the ritual more times than he could count. He knew, for the most part, what he was doing. And he knew the reputation people who cut had. They were called emo. They were called weird. They were avoided at all costs, and sometimes bullied. Mason didn't think he was emo. He hated that stereotype, and even more, hated the people who created the template for the stereotype-- the real emo people. He had in his mind, a fine line separating "self harmers" and "emo." Emo, as he figured, was a statement. Look at me, I'm sad. Look at me people, I'm different. Look at me people, I cut myself. It was a statement, a sort of fashion, and it reminded him of gay people. Who also, sadly, have their own categories-- gay people who act like normal people, and the "Oh look at me, I'm gay" people. And a lot of gay people dislike their flamboyant counterparts who give them a bad name.
He didn't cut because he wanted to be noticed. In fact, he took measures as to make sure he WASN'T noticed. His goal was never to stand out. It was merely to cope, to cope with the crippling pain he felt inside. If anything, he hated being different. He detested it, he didn't want to be any more different than he already was. So he cut secretly, drawing shallow cuts on his upper legs, high enough to be covered by any pair of shorts for any activity, and shallow enough to heal quickly and not scar. He was in sports, after all. He had a certain reputation to uphold. His team mates would be wary if they saw cuts all down his wrists.
Self harmers are widely misunderstood, since they had they were all categorized into the ridiculous "emo" stature. Mason tried to explain the difference to a few trusted friends. They all refused to accept it. He wondered if maybe the stereotype was actually true, and that he was just an exception to it. He never came up with the answer to that. But when he cut, he had one thought in mind-- to stop the thoughts in his head. Those dark, poisonous, insidious thoughts. The physical pain was like a sharp pinch to wake himself from a nightmare. He never cut often, and he never cut excessively-- it was at most, once a month, and he limited himself to two shallow cuts per leg. He used to punch walls when it got bad, but punching walls made noise, and furthermore, crippled his hands, which were left almost broken after one outbreak. Bloody-swollen hands were suspicious-- a cry for attention. It also made it difficult to perform daily activities. He switched to cutting for a more controlled way of pain. That's all he wanted, was the pain. The physical pain to block out the mental pain. He got most of the pain from sports, but sometimes it wasn't enough...
"Just a little bit," he whispered. He was nervous. His stepmother had recently moved out, taking all of her knives. His dad didn't have sharp knives... they were dull, and never drew blood. He had an idea, however, and found one of his Dad's tool razor blades. Surely that would cut, right? He just had to be careful... he didn't want to cut too deep. Those blades were sharp, very sharp. He remembered his Dad saying, "Careful, Mason. Those blades can't cut very deeply if you aren't paying attention." How stupid would he think of his son if he knew what he was about to do? But the thoughts were howling inside of his head. He had to stop them...
He had the salt and rubbing alcohol beside him. His goal was pain. Not to make a mess. That's why he kept his cuts shallow. He could supplement the pain of a deep cut by pouring salt and rubbing alcohol into the wounds. The searing burn was what snapped him out of it. Out of the prison in his head. It kept him captive for so long... And also, the way he saw it, as well as the pain, the salt and alcohol was also healthy, seeing as it cleaned and disinfected the wound. He knew that what he was doing was wrong. He knew it was weird. He was ashamed. He tried to rationalize it as much as he could to himself. But cutting was cutting. He knew that. He knew it wasn't healthy. But he didn't know what else to do...
Slit. He made a small cut on his arm. "Damn," he muttered. Too shallow... One more, he thought. He would move to his leg. One cut on his arm was no cause for concern. Two was suspicious. Must avoid suspicion... Just a little deeper...
Slit. There was a sensation best described as a sharp whack, followed by numbness. No pain. And he saw the line he had just cut split open like a pair of lips. Oh no, he thought. Oh no, oh no oh no oh no...
He sat in stunned silence. He was in shock, looking down at the wound. He could see each layer of skin he had cut past. It was deep. How deep? Maybe he could just wrap it up really good, right? It didn't seem to be bleeding too bad. Maybe it wasn't so bad--
And then the blood began to roll down his leg, splashing onto the bathroom tiles. It fell faster than water, making a little puddle as he sat on the toilet in shock. Pitter patter pitter patter...
"What did I do?" I whispered. "What did I do to myself...?"
