Darkest Corners

So it begins

Lou was tapping away at her phone, a smile playing at her lips. I was lying on the couch opposite to her, trying to get my heart rate under control. I had just come of stage. I was sweating like crazy and I was sure as soon as the adrenalin wore out I would be aching all over.

I could see the guys performing from where I sat, on a small screen backstage. I smiled as I saw Luke almost trip on something a fan threw onstage. Calums hand immediately shot out to help balance him. I knew the guys were having the time of their lives right now, but I couldn't help wishing they were here with me.

I wasn't feeling to good, and we had come to an agreement, all of us. If ever any of us felt like something wasn't right, we were to go to each other no matter what the others were doing. And yes that included being onstage, but I never could when they were performing. I could see the fun they were having out there, I knew that if I asked any one of them or all of them would come but I just couldn't do it, It felt selfish. Just like they never came to me when I was performing.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand. I couldn't help it, my left wrist was itching and the voices were getting out of control. I got up swiftly and mumbled something about needing some fresh air to Lou. She was too engrossed in what she was doing to notice that my arms were shaking.

Good. That meant she wouldn't ask questions. I walked out, the cold air hitting me. I shivered slightly and made my way towards the tour bus. Once there I headed straight for my duffel bag. There, in between all my stuff, folded neatly in Kleenex was what I was looking for.

I made my way to the tiny bathroom on the bus and locked the door behind me. Then, proceeded to remove all my bracelets. When they were all off I sighed in relief, my back hitting the door. I slid down to the floor a bitter smile playing at my lips. I glanced at my wrists and saw the scars that never seemed to fade. Of course, in order for them to start fading, I would need to stop adding to them.

But when I was younger the scars used to fade to a pale white pretty quickly because the cuts weren't too deep. These days, they were constantly an ugly reddish brown. This started happening since the cuts got deeper, but I couldn't help it. After a while the shallow cuts had stopped hurting, and I was addicted to the pain. I deserved it. I needed it. I craved it.

I knew the boys would eventually find out, "they always do," I mutter under my breath. But that day didn't have to be today. I would be quick about it, then I would have my bracelets back on and it would be like it never happened.

With that in mind, I brought the blade down on my wrist. The cool metal felt familiar in my hand. I grazed its razor edge,softly first on my wrist. Then harder. This time drawing blood almost instantly. I went on and on, going deeper everytime. I felt relieved. Nothing compared to the high of cutting, the satisfaction, not even performing.

I did it until my vision started going dark. I didn't know how much time had passed by since I started. It had felt too short. I picked myself up off the floor. It was good to be able to punish myself again. Someone like me didn't get to live their lives without being punished. It wasn't right.

I finally opened my eyes, and stared, shocked. I had made way more cuts than I had intended to. They were even deeper than I thought. Panic began to claw its way out of me, but I shoved it back down. No. I had to act. I had to clean up this mess before they got back.

I set my blade down on the counter and rinsed my hand under the sink. Then I took toilet paper and started cleaning up the blood on the cool tiled floor. My blood was everywhere and the smell was beginning to get to me. I felt nauseous. About 15 minutes later I was done and the bleeding on my wrist had slowed down considerably, but not as much as I would have liked.