Build me up (kickthestickz)

Chapter 1

*PJ POV*

My arms still sting. I went deeper than usual this time. It was a bad idea.

Not that anyone will notice the blood on my bed sheets, or the cuts that cover my arm like a sleeve. No-one notices. No-one cares.

There's a tiny voice in my head.

Cut deeper, it whispers, clawing at my ears. You know it feels good. You want it.

No. I don't want it. I tried so hard to stop. I was nearly a week clean.

And then I had to go fuck it up, like everything else.

I reach for my phone before remembering I deleted my blog. If anything, it was just spurring on my urges. I tried so hard. But I can't accomplish fucking anything.

PJ, you know you're a fuck-up, right? Yeah, I know.

I can feel an anxiety attack coming on and I don't even know why.

Just breathe, just fucking breathe, it's okay, I tell myself. Breathe in for four seconds, hold for eight seconds, breathe out for four. Repeat. You'll be fine, just breathe.

I sit up. I'm shivering and my heart is hammering against my chest.

Where's the fucking blade?!

No. Fucking stop it. You will not cut again today, PJ Liguori.

But then again, you deserve it. No-one loves you, you're ugly, fat, worthless... look at yourself. Look at all you ate today. You're disgusting...

All my demons have joined in.

You're fat...

Ugly...

Worthless...

Weak...

I get up. I'm not cutting again today. But I need to do something about everything I ate.

I lock the bathroom door. I don't really need to bother, because my mum is almost certainly asleep.

I take a deep breath and try not to focus on ramming two fingers down my throat and puking up everything in my stomach. I can't do anything about what I already digested, but this will have to be good enough.

I'm shivering harder afterwards and I can't get warm. I cry into my pillow like every night that I can remember.

And I dream of death like every night that I can remember.

*Chris POV*

"Hey, queer! You're going to hell!"

I don't even turn around. Like, seriously, as if I give a fuck. God's a douchebag anyway.

I sit down at the desk and pull out my phone. The teacher hasn't arrived yet and I literally cannot stand the incessantly brainless conversation of people in my year.

I see that emo boy walk in a few minutes later. His curly hair covers his eyes and he looks at the ground, shaking slightly. Someone is blocking his desk so he can't sit down.

Another few guys are jumping up and down, making a slicing motion with their hand on their other arm.

"Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut!" They yell.

What fucking twats, I think as I push in my headphones.

I can hear the emo kid whimpering. I look up to see him covering his face with his hands.

That wasn't very smart, kid, I think, because his sleeves have fallen down slightly. Criss-crossing all the skin that I can see are red lines. There's barely a gap. The bullies must be able to see it too.

They roar with laughter and make puking gestures. It's like they feel as though they've achieved something by making him scared.

"Go kill yourself already!" They chant, and eventually the guy blocking his desk moves and the curly-haired boy sits down, looking on the edge of tears. He buries his face in his hands.

I turn back to my phone.

*PJ POV*

What have I done?

Why do they hate me?

I'm sitting on a closed toilet seat with my feet up against the door. I know they'll come looking for me.

I breathe deeply. I wish I hadn't left my blades at home.

No. Don't think like that. Think of all the good things in your life that you are lucky to have.

And I try, I really do, because I know I'm being selfish and I know I am so lucky to have all the food I want and a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in.

But when I try, my head just goes empty.

I sit there until lunch is over. In fact, I wait for a few minutes after the bell. Then I get up shakily and walk to Art.

I have to sit next to that gay kid. I don't really know him, I don't even know his name, but he's kind of cute. I don't know why people beat him up.

He looks over at me when I sit down. He does this every lesson. Looks at me apprehensively. Then goes back to his phone.

Art drags by. I sketch my dream place. It's a cottage in a forest clearing, by a brook. There are rambling roses and the grass is bright green. Whenever things get bad, I imagine myself there.

I try to leave as quickly as possible. I'm just getting up when I feel a hand on my arm.

It's the gay kid. He looks me in the eye. His own brown irises and wide and fearful, like I've got some sort of disease.

"Don't cut tonight."

I pull my arm away. I run out of the classroom. I run all the way home through back alleys, away from anywhere they'll find me.

When I sit on my bed at last, I'm shaking and tears are running down my face. I scream. I puke up whatever's left in my stomach.

But I don't cut.