Repairing my universe. (ON HOLD)

seven

NEW CHAPTER!! as promised. hope you guys enjoy.

comment and vote? please

triggering content below. you've been warned.

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Today I woke up feeling really crappy. I just hate the world and anything in it. I couldn't sleep last night thinking about that nightmare I had the other night. I've had that dream many times before. But is it really a dream? or is it a flashback of what happened that night? Ugh, I am so confused. I need to think. A lot. But I have work today. Well I can't think if I go to work, right? No. I need to call in sick. Yes. But first, a shower.

I get in the shower and let the water slowly wet my small scarred body. I didn't only cut my wrists. I also cut my thighs, my forearms and my stomach. It's not something I'm proud of, but I just couldn't seem to stop. It was addictive and even now that I have been clean of fresh cuts for a few months, I can feel my body, those places where I used to cut, craving the pain. Some people think that depressed people do it because of attention, or that maybe we want to pitied, but personally, it's because I feel guilty for everything that happened in my life. I feel like I deserve it. I'm a bad person. I hurt people by being such a mess. Such a disaster. And the pain only helps take away some of the emotional pain that I hold inside. I call the bad days the dark days. Yeah I know, cutting is not the best method for coping but it's my favorite method. I'm just so depressed and I never talk about it because nobody understands. Nobody wants to understand a girl's pain. People say, I'm there for you, but as soon as they hear what's wrong they make up excuses to stop listening. They say, happy is a decision, but my happy is a high fever that will break. My depression is a shapeshifter. One day it can be as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear, the next day it's the bear. Nobody notices whenever I'm feeling down. Why do you ask me, well because I am just too well at pretending I'm okay and people actually buy it. The only guys I can't convince are my best friends. They know me too well and they do notice when I'm not okay. I can't hide anything from them. Sometimes I hate that they know me so well but I'm really happy that they notice and never leave me alone when I'm feeling like this.

I wash my body as I let my thoughts flow. 30 minutes later I hop out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel. I walk over to my dresser and pull out a baby blue t-shirt and some grey sweatpants. I grab my phone and dial my bosses phone. He picks up at the third ring.

"Delilah, what's up?" he says.

"Hey Mark, I can't make it to work today. I'm afraid I had some bad food at the restaurant from down the street and I've been vomiting all morning" I say making my voice sound hoarse and raspy. You know, 'from vomiting'. I heard him sigh. He probably knows I'm lying.

"Delilah, you barely come to work. You're always calling in sick. If you cannot take this job seriously then don't bother coming back. You're fired." He hangs up.

Oh my god. My mother will kill me now for sure. I wish she understood what I go through but she has never asked if I'm okay or not. She's never home and she never takes care of me. My dad isn't around since I was little. My oldest sister moved out of here three years ago. She never calls, never writes, never visits. She abandoned me with the woman that calls herself my mother. Though she is nothing but a stranger to me–

"DELILAH!!" my mother, Martha, yells.

Without saying anything, I walk out of my room and make my way downstairs to the front door where she is standing. She looks pissed off. Her phone is in her hands.

"Yes mother?" I ask as sweetly as I can.

"MARK JUST TEXTED ME SAYING THAT HE FIRED YOU BECAUSE YOU KEEP CALLING IN SICK TO WORK. ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?! YOU KNOW HOW I MUST LOOK? YOU HAVE MADE ME LOOK SO IRRESPONSIBLE FOR RECOMMENDING YOU TO HIM! CAN'T YOU DO SOMETHING PRODUCTIVE AT LEAST ONCE IN YOUR MISERABLE LIFE? HUH?! YOU'RE SO PATHETIC, YOU KNOW?" she screams at the top of her lungs, looking at me with such hatred. I shiver at the coldness of her words. "I can't believe I have such a stupid, irresponsible daughter. I wish you were more like your sister, Taylor." she says sternly.

Her being an asshole isn't something new in my life but what she just said really hurt me. I feel the tears building up in my eyes. I can't cry in front of her. I run back upstairs, enter my room and lay on my bed sobbing.

She doesn't understand. To my mother, I am nothing but a sloth, nothing but an emotionless being, nothing compared to my perfect old sister. She is always ordering me around and she is never pleased with the outcome. She doesn't understand that I no longer have the slightest fight in me. She doesn't know my everyday struggles. She never asks why I never leave my room or why I am so consumed by sad music and books. She sometimes tells me she loves me but she doesn't act like she does. I cannot feel the love. I feel numb. I am numb to her distant self, to her lack of interest in me. She does care that I'm raised right and she has strong opinions about sex, boys and dating but she doesn't seem to be interested in my emotional well being. How come she doesn't notice my sadness? I can't stop crying. It hurts too much. My chest aches so much. My head is throbbing in pain. I know what this means. The urge is back. The sadness is always here, like a stabbing knife through my chest. Like an evil force is determined to destroy me. I always feel like I'm in a deep, hollow, dark hole and I can't seem to get out. And I'm not sure that I want to get out anymore. It has become a part of me, this pain. If my pillow could speak, you would be truly heartbroken by all the bullshit that I have been through. I be trying to keep myself busy by reading or listening to music but the urge is still in my chest and mind. I need to do it. I'm scared of what the guys will say if they find out but if I don't do it, I'll feel worse. I need to do it. If I don't, the feeling won't leave. I need to do it. If I don't, I'll go crazy. I need to do it. I have to vent but I don't want to tell anyone how much my mother hates me. I NEED TO DO IT. I am doing it.

I get up from my bed, still sobbing uncontrollably and walk over to my dresser. I get on my knees and reach out, opening the last drawer. I reach out once again underneath my clothes, to the back of the drawer until I can feel the hard surface of a small box, a jewelry box. I slowly take it out and place it in my lap. The box is very small and rectangular, about three inches tall. It fits in my hand. I colored it with some cheap black spray paint. With a white sharpie I doodled on the sides of the box. Small flowers and hearts, and some skulls too. The box is made out of wood. I really like it. I stare at the small box for what feels like years but it's only about five seconds. I find the courage to finally open it after so many months. I can feel my heart pounding. Fast. Strong in my chest. I look at the small blade that's inside of this beautiful box. I take it out, holding it at arms length and let myself examine it for a little while. It is a little scratched and at the sharp side of the blade, you can see the faint sight of dry blood. I sigh ever so slightly and hold my right arm out. I look at the small pink scars that cover from my wrist all the way to my elbow. Tears are still streaming down my cheeks. Nonstop.

"Why is life so hard?" I whisper. I feel a voice very similar to mines inside of my mind saying, 'Because you are worthless. You deserve pain, not love. You're incapable of being loved. DO IT.'

I cry even harder if that's even possible. I place the blade on my skin. DO IT! I press down and drag the blade across my skin. Pain. Yes, this is what I needed. Release. My emotional pain feels a little less hurtful. 'Physical pain is better than emotional pain.' That's what I keep telling myself. I drag the blade across my skin more times making clean cuts, one beside the other until there's a whole line of bloody cuts filling my arm. Some release this is. The pain in my chest doesn't feel as bad as it did now. I place the blade back in the box and put the box away. I walk to the bathroom connected to my bedroom and grab some toilet paper, wiping the blood away. My arm is throbbing in pain but I don't mind. It's better than going crazy. Suddenly, I remember what my mother told me not too long ago. I panic. I can't stay here anymore. She hates me. Why would I even burden her with my presence? I change my shirt to a long sleeve shirt and quickly pack a bag with all the clothes I can fill it with. All my personal items too. I put on some shoes and walk to my bedroom door, opening it a little to check if my mom is around. No sound around the house. Okay, she left for work. I'm not sure where I'll go but I still run downstairs and out the door.