Good Enough

Julian - Mornings

I really hate mornings.

Each time I open my eyes, my first thought is "shit". Mornings are the worst part of my day. Mostly because they mean that another day has started, and it's another day I have to suffer through. And it all starts the minute I open my eyes.

I sigh loudly as I get up, and my bed creaks beneath me. When I scan my eyes around the room, I see unfinished homework sitting on my desk, my laptop still open, and textbooks everywhere. For most people, weekends mean a break from school. Not for me. Weekends are when I try to finish as much as possible, only to have more work piled on during the week.

I tear my eyes away from all the work I have to come back to and head into the bathroom. I look like shit, but I always do. I think that the dark circles under my eyes are permanent now, since I never go to sleep before four in the morning. My hair's a mess too. But that doesn't really matter right now. All I'm doing is going for a run right now. It doesn't matter how I look. It's not like anyone is going to be paying close attention to me while I run.

I finish washing my face and teeth and move my left hand up to run it through my hair. Except I stop when I see the faint white line just under my wrist. Technically, I see it everyday. And everyday it makes me stop.

I don't forget about it necessarily, but somedays I wish I could. Every time I see it I think the same things.

Failure. I'm a failure. Approximately 129 people succeed each day. Yet I couldn't.

Still tracing over the white line, I walk to my room to change and grab my running shoes. Once I'm finished getting ready, I make my way downstairs. And like always, my older brother Mateo is sitting at the table, waiting. He's been doing this for the past year, and I appreciate the gesture but...

He still doesn't care. He's still the amazing golden boy, the perfect son. You're not. You never were, and now you never will be. Now you're damaged because you didn't do it right.

"Morning." I mumble.

"Morning. You headed out?" He asks, looking at my outfit. He knows that when I wear these shoes and shorts, I'm going on a run.

"Mhm."

Mateo gets up and walks over to where I'm getting water and sighs. "You okay?"

I must look sad or something. "Yeah, of course." I give him a small smile, because if I go any bigger it'll look fake.

"Wrists."

I roll my eyes. "Again? You ask me this everyday."

"I know I do. Now show me."

I sigh and roll the sleeves of my sweatshirt up. My wrists are clean. They always are.

"Satisfied?"

"Yes. Now you can leave if you want."

I roll my eyes again and pull my sleeves back down. "Thanks" I say sarcastically.

I'm not dumb. I don't do it on my wrists. That's obvious, even if Mateo didn't check each morning. When I do it, it's someplace where I can make an excuse. Mateo is really smart, but he has yet to realize that cutting isn't only on your wrists.

"I'll see you later. Bye!" I shout as I head out the door.

I'm ready for a run. I need this.