petrichor

The Knife

Question:
have you ever had a dream that felt so real to you, that when you wake up you feel disoriented?

Natasha

In the darkness of her own bedroom, and the inaudible shouts from the kitchen outside, she held a cutter knife in one hand as the other one was used to wipe the tears from her face. She looked at the item she was holding, the tip was shiny and it looked as if the blade could cut more than just paper.

Natasha sobbed uncontrollably, every inch of her body hurts, even her fingers. She gripped the cutter knife even tighter until her knuckles turned white from effort. She fought back the urge to place the knife on her arms and embed more scars on it. The wounds on her arms were increasing in an alarming amount amount now. Almost every night, the cutter knife and other sharp objects in her house became her only friends.

When she sliced the knife through her skin, her brain would be numb from thoughts. And that's the way she liked it, numb and unable to feel a thing except sharp pain on the skin. It's the only way she could cope with what was happening outside her bedroom door; Her drunken stepdad hitting her helpless mom.

Sometimes, she would make long, horizontal cuts on her arms. Other times, she would make little but many cuts instead. The important thing was, her arms would be peppered with ten or more scars and her bedsheets would be stained with a little bit of blood by morning, and she would wake up with red and puffy eyes.

She smiled sadly as she looked at her wounded arms. The knife glinting in the dark. The thoughts in her brain were spiralling out of control now. Just one more. She sighed. Just one more, and I'm done. She thought to herself, though she wasn't so sure.

The more controlled part of her brain, the one who was still hanging on to life itself thought, No, don't do this. But the crazier, more desperate part of her mind seem to say in a seducing voice. Oh, please. It'll do you no harm. The voices in her head were warring with each other so badly and loudly, she was having a headache.

Natasha glanced at her room door. It looked normal for everyone, it was white with a pink medium sized dream catcher stuck to it. But she wasn't looking at her door, she was listening to the shouts outside it. The sounds she hated so much ever since her mom married her stepdad one in a half years ago.

The voices and shouts outside was her stepfather in a drunk state, beating up his wife, who was powerless to stop her husband from doing so. She heard her mother scream, "NO!" But a millisecond later, she howled in pain. Natasha realized she'd been hit.

Besides the screams, the only sound that coming was the deafening crash of dinner plates thrown on to the ground, shattering against the floor. She wondered if the plate she painted for her mom's birthday when she was 6 years old was broken already. But in this situation, why would she thought of that?

One thing was most certain. At night, when her stepdad was sleeping, her mom would wake her up, with tears streaming down her face and red marks on her cheek and bruises on her arms, and ask her to go to the kitchen and clean up the mess her stepfather had made. She would then whisper to her daughter, who was equally hurt. "I'm sorry."

Natasha would then tip-toe quietly to the kitchen and do her best to pick up the broken ceramic on the floor, and sweep the excess into a dustpan, as to not damage anyone's feet in the morning. Then, she would quietly go to her room again, and force herself to sleep. But she mostly lay awake thinking about what would happen the next morning.

Tears streamed down her face, as she wiped the tears with the sleeve of her shirt. Her suicidal thoughts were so strong, she figured if she didn't try to stop it, she could die from a massive headache. But maybe it would take a larger amount of headache if she wanted to. Maybe she had to have a stroke first, but it would take time – and she wanted to die now, not in several years to come.

The more controlled part of her brain screamed. Hey, are you crazy? Don't even think about dying, you moron! But she paid no attention to it, instead she looked at her knife again.

She hated this, she hated her stepdad, for he wasn't even her biological parent. He was just a drunk, crazed parasite living inside her and her mom's house, the house that used to be her home and sanctuary. Now all of it was gone, ever since Darrell, her stepdad moved in.

She hated herself being so weak, she can't even comfort her mom. She wished she had the courage to embrace her, and tell her that it's going to be okay. She wished for the pain in her heart would go away, but it stayed; leaving a black hole that was unable to close.

She looked at her arm; red, bloody, scars, seemed to make a permanent mark on it. She gripped the knife tightly, part of her wants to stop, but part of her wants to continue until she dies of blood loss. And the part who wanted to die, was winning.

"CRASH!" the sound of broken crockery filled the air. Her stepfather was shouting loudly as she heard another howl of pain from her mom. Is she going to die? she thought. I bet.

She had so much in her head and heart, she wanted it to go away forever. She placed the knife carefully on her arm, and without hesitation, she made a cut, sighing as she witnessed scarlet drops of blood trickling down her arm then to the floor, She smiled sadly as pain shot through her arms, penetrating her thoughts, the pain can't make her cry.