Diary of a Cutter

"Stop fucking cutting yourself!" She screamed at herself, tears streaming down her cheeks, blurring her vision.

No. Keep going. It feels good.

"No it doesn't! It hurts so bad!" She sobbed, as her hand brought the razor to her wrist.

You love it. It makes you feel alive.

Her cell phone beeps, and she looks at it through her tears, the blade poised above her skin. God, Amber, you can't even stop cutting.

"Im sorry..." She sobs again, and drags the blade in a neat line across her skin.

Good... You feel good now don't you?

She nods slowly, watching the blood drip down her arm. "Help..." She whispers, but remembers what they said when she reached out. 'You don't need to do it.' and 'Just stop!'.

"I'm so weak... I can't even stop..."

You'll never be worth anything. This is the only thing you'll ever be good for.

"I know..." She choked down another sob and made another red line on her wrist.

She tried so hard to stop, made so many promises to herself and others, but it was all in vain. She knew, deep down inside, that she wasn't strong enough to stop. They would all leave, once again. She was useless, leaving a string of broken promises behind her.

Her cellphone buzzed again, and she glanced at it. Please stop, youre hurting me. She gasped, like she was punched in the gut. "Im sorry." She gasped, tears flowing freely. She wanted nothing more than to keep her friends safe, to keep them happy. But once again, she fucked it all up. Sometimes she just wished they would leave, because knowing her weakness gave them pain made her feel worse than the blade at her wrist.

But you won't stop. You can't.

Her arm stung, but she ignored it as her phone buzzed rapidly. Her friend was calling. With a shaky breath, she answered it.

"Amber!" The voice on the other end sounded relieved. "Amber, you're okay! You worried me!"

"I-I'm sorry," Her voice shook, "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You are okay, right?"

The words stood at the tip of her tongue, to tell him everything, to let it all out and cry.

No. You feel this pain alone. You like it, remember?

"Yeah... I'm fine." She lied, and her heart sank.

"Okay good, get some sleep okay? It'll help."

"Okay."

He hung up, and she hugged her phone to her chest. "I'm supposed to be happy someone cares, right?" She whispered, but began sobbing. "I can't even feel right, what's wrong with me?"

Everything. You know that.

"I know..." She agreed.

You know what you have to do.

She nodded. She can't stop at just four cuts, she has to make a picture of pain and sadness on her arm. That's what makes the pain in her chest disappear, at least for a moment. The deeper the cuts, the more that she added, the longer she felt bliss.

After painting her arms with the prettiest red she knew, she stopped to think. That was a mistake. All the pain came back like a train, hitting her in the chest so hard she thought she felt her heart break.

Why are you still here?

She didn't know anymore, not really. She knew what her friends would say, that they would miss her, that she has so much to live for, but she didn't see it. If her breaking, cracking under the pain and stress of life, of trying to relieve it with her metal paintbrush, she might as well save them the pain, and leave.

Like a bandaid, right?

She would save them the pain of having to be around her, keep them from seeing the monster she truly was.

Just do it. She wanted you to do it, remember?

She sobbed, trying to find a spot of pretty white skin to slice open. She didn't want to remember, not that. A thousand sobbed apologies and pained excuses had caused her to bury the thought deep inside, away from any light. But it was making her remember the pain, when her best friend, the person she loved more than anyone, the person that knew her inside and out, told her to kill herself. That night had confirmed that no matter how many people told her she was worth something, that her tormentors simply 'needed to know her better', she would never be good enough. The one person who knew her better than she knew herself had confirmed that she, Amber Mary Buckman, would never be deserving of the life she had so graciously been given.

Just do it already. No one wants you anyway.

"I'm scared."

JUST DO IT!

"I can't!" She screamed, sobbing.

Hours later, she numbly got up, every movement sending her body through tiny shocks of pain. She pulled on an oversized jacket to cover her cuts from anyone waking early, and walked slowly to the bathroom. For thirty minutes she scrubbed, disinfected, and wrapped her arms, biting her tongue to keep from yelling out in pain.

That day she walked through school in her jacket, never daring to take it off, even though she felt sick from heat. She looked at her classmates, her teachers, her friends, and tried to imagine what they would be like if she had been strong enough to do it. She tried to convince herself that they would care, that they would miss her, but she knew that they wouldn't.

The voice wasn't back that day, or the next, but she knew, when she was weakest, it would come to try and pull her into the darkness.

The end