rAnDoM

Broken Mirrors and Messed Up Memories - No Ship

Trigger Warning: Gender dysphoria, self harm, attempted suicide, slight mentions of starvation. If you're easily triggered by any of the above, I highly suggest that you do NOT read this.

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I stood there, looking in the bathroom mirror. Why couldn't I be more handsome? Why can't I be more of a guy? Why can't I stand up for myself? Why can't I be one of the guys? Why can't I just be a normal guy?

I look down at my arms. Horrible, rugged red marks cover them. They describe a story of pain, loss, fear, and confusion.

I look down at my chest. There lies another example of why I can't be a guy.

I look down at my stomach. It's too big. Maybe I should go on a diet? But I've heard that starving works better.

I look down at my crotch. Yet again another reason why I can't be a guy.

I look at my thighs. It continues the story that my arms tell. Kind of like a sequel, but an even worse than the first story.

I then look at every single one of my stretch marks. I touch them. I feel disgusted with myself.

Last but not least, I then look at my face. I didn't know I was crying until I saw the tears roll down my cheeks. I see every spot on my face. I see every freckle. I see every little hair. I see the fat in my cheeks.

I see every flaw in my body.

I pick up the razor, looking at my reflection in its metal.

I guide the blade right down to my arm. I debate on whether or not I should cut the vein or not.

I chose that I would cut it.

I hover the blade over the vein, almost as if hesitating on whether or not I should do it.

I go to press down on the blade-

"STOP!!!"

Fuck. I should've locked the door.

I look up to see my best friend standing there, tears in her eyes.

"Why? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I thought that you might freak out, that you would want to be friends with me anymore..." I trailed off. I didn't want to look up at her face in fear of rejection.

"Look at me," she tilted my chin upwards. She held my face with her hands so I couldn't look away. "Promise me that you will never do this again, and that when you feel like this, tell me."

"I promise."

"Now, in the meantime, lets take care of a little something."

She walks over to the mirror, picks up a shampoo bottle and throws it at the mirror. She then walks over to me. She looks at my left hand, still holding the blade, and puts out her right hand. I hug the blade close to my chest, knowing exactly what she was going to do.

"Tristen. It's just a piece of metal. It has no worth or value in your life."

I reluctantly handed it over.

She then walked over to the toilet, pulled up the lid, popped the razor in the bowl, and flushed it down the toilet.

"Come here."

All I remember from there on was me letting out all the emotions I've held in since I was 5 and passing out in her arms.