It starts this way every time. With a text and a knife. With one cut.
It ends the same way too-with fresh cuts covering my arms and blood stained clothes.
Surrounded by floral print of my bean bag, my curly blonde hair hiding one eye, I read-just some easy read teen fiction, my phone beeps.
“Why don’t you just kill yourself?” it reads.
I stare at it, expressionless, I just look. I don’t cry or scream or text back. Taking a shaky breath out, I lower my vision to my wrists, the wrists covered in scars and cuts. Glancing to my side, without thinking I pick up my knife-originally used for peeling potatoes, and I cut. I cut into my feelings, into my pain, into the abuse, into me. Again and again until I feel that tear roll down my cheek, my cracked, rose lips and into my mouth. Then more and more come until I taste the salt so strong that it is disgusting.
There it goes again, that noise I associate with horrible abuse.
“C’mon just do it. Nobody would care. Just kill yourself already”
I look down at my wrists again, this time to see them stained with blood and I cut. And again. Just as I’m about to cut once more my mum calls.
“Lana, dinner!”
At that I grab the blue cardigan at my feet and hall it over my tie dyes dress, my cardigan is damp at my wrists from the blood but I don’t think people will notice. I run down the stairs, my dress flares behind me as I pass by the old pictures of me. The picture of me as a baby-I’m still so innocent, when I’m 3-with my cheeky grin, at 7-I’m starting to realise who I am, at 10-I’m bisexual and the most recent, I’m being bullied, have anxiety and self-harm but I look like a normal 13 year old girl with my big smile, pink dip dyed hair pulled to one side.
As I near the bottom of the stairs I leap off, landing at the bottom with a thud as my purple converse slam into the ground. I use the banister to swirl round and walk into the dining room. There is a long, dark brown wooden table stretching across one side, a warm floral pattern stretches up the walls of the room. Plonking myself on the end chair and staring at my plate, I run my fingers over my cuts, I can feel the roughness of the dried blood against my skin. I look up at the ceiling and bit my lip, as I have learnt this is the most effective way of holding back tears.
My eyes jolt up as my mum places the plate of food in front of me. Just looking at it makes me feel guilty, I don’t feel like eating, but then again I rarely feel like eating. The plate of macaroni sits there for minutes before I even pick up my cutlery. The tangy taste of cheese is quite overwhelming to someone who doesn’t eat much, I have a few spoonfuls before giving up. I make up a lousy excuse of not feeling well and disappear back off to my room.
Another text comes through, that noise that just makes me want to die sounds and I just can’t do it anymore. I run off into the bathroom clutching my knife. I sit on the toilet lid and stare at the bottle. Six. That’s all it would take to end it. 6 pills and I could be free for the torture I endure on a daily basis.
After what seems like hours there is a knock on the door,
“Honey, are you okay in there” I hear my Dad ask with deep concern.
I glance at the bottle, then at the door. Finally deciding I can’t put my parents through that, I jump up and snatch the bottle.
“I’m fine Dad, I’ll be out in a minute.” Shoving the bottle back in the cabinet, I wipe my tears, hide my knife up my cardigan sleeve and open the door with a fake smile on my face.
I quickly get back in my bedroom, jump onto my bed and curl up, I pull my teal duvet around me, and close my eyes. Hoping this was a dream I open my eyes to find the same reality, my eyes scan my room. They skim past myBeatles poster, my drawing of Dean Winchester-a character from a tv show I love- and the carttons of my favourite celebrities I drew last week. I look over my Aztec wall paper and my eyes finally drift to the small white table beside my bed where my phone lies. Picking it up, I give it one last look and lobb it at my wall, hoping that as it shatters so will the suffering I go through. Then I start to cry, which turns into a sob. I must of cried myself to sleep because the next thing I know it, my alarm clock is playing Here Comes The Sun.
This is it. This is my life.
