Better Off Alone✔

€hapter 8:

~Paris~

I can't believe I told Alex everything about Zach. I have never told anybody about that not even K.C.

I hadn't even noticed that tears were streaming down my face uncontrollably and to be honest I didn't even care. It felt so amazing to cry. To let all of my emotions out.

I climbed up the side of my house and fell, with a thump, into my bedroom.

Hopefully nobody heard me.

With a tear stained face and bloodshot eyes, I crept my way into my bathroom, lifting up a loose tile to receive the wrong.

The shiny silver substance reflected off of the light above me, making it seem as if it were just a harmless piece of metal.

If only it were.

Easing my back against the tiled wall, I glanced once more at the blade that lie between my fingertips.

The blade was cold against my skin, but it brought a sense of hope into mind.

People always look at us "cutters" and think that when we cut, we want to die. Commit suicide.

But do we really?

No. Now in some cases maybe, or maybe the cutting leads to suicide, but it's not the cause. The pain, anaxiety, flashbacks, and all of the tiredness is.

Self-injury may be desperate, but it is something I can actually do something I can feel. For me it's a kind of hope, a way out. It's not giving up. It's not killing myself. It's healing me, purifying the wrong.

I watch as the blood trickles down my leg. As sick as it may sound, a smile crept across my face.

Relief washed itself upon my mind, flooding out all of my anger, anxiety, and helplessness.

It's like when you see the blood flowing out, the pain and fear are flowing out with it. Or at least for that moment. I guess, honestly, they never really do.

I wish people understood.

One more deep gash.

I wish I was skinnier.

Another.

Sometimes I self-injure to make myself feel something because I'm just totally numb. Other times I cut to make myself numb because I can't deal with what I'm feeling.

It's just something I need and probably will for a long time.

As I was getting ready to make yet another slash, I thought of Alex.

What would he say if he knew?
Would he run?
Would he turn and never come back?

Alex, would you love me?

And I would find out shortly, for that's when the door crept open.