the guy at the party

36.- wounded.

    *warning* this chapter is very sad, and has some exclusive partake in harming yourself which I do not encourage. If you're finger was hurting, why would you want to cut off your whole foot? Your skins not paper, don't cut it. I'm here for all of you 💛

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    I woke up the next morning with more hateful comments that had gave me the same feelings before.
  "Whore." "Slut." "Bitch." "Cunt."
  I didn't eat yesterday at all, and I know that that's not healthy for the baby. But how am I supposed to eat when I feel the way that I do?
   I broke down on my bathroom floor, seems like I've done that a ton of times in the past 24 hours.
  Nobody was home, Zach went to Nicks, but I didn't feel like going anywhere. What was the point? The nagging feeling followed me wherever I decided to go.
   I notice the razor blade on the edge of the bathtub, and stared at them blankly for a good ten seconds.
   My wrists looked so clean, like there was nothing wrong with me.
But there is stuff wrong with me. If not, why would people have said those things?
  I picked up the razor blade, and ran it against my wrist, making a long open cut. It bled, so much.
  "Babe! I'm home!" I heard Zach call from the living room.
  I threw the razor blade back on the edge of the bathtub, and headed out to greet him, covering my wounded wrists with my hand.
  "Hey baby." He said pulling me into a hug, but he noticed my hand was hovered over my wrists.
  "What's going on?" He asked, concerned.
  "Nothing." I lied.
  Zach nudged my hand, and took a look at my wrists, tearing up as he scanned them.
  "Chloe, what the heck?" He cried, taking me into his arms.
  I began crying too.
"Why would you do such a thing?" He asked.
My heart broke.
"Because Zach! Everyone hates me!" I yelled, and he cried some more.
"I don't!" He yelled back, pulling me into a another hug.
  He sat me down on the couch, covered my wrist in some type of cloth silently.
  I only meant to hurt myself, not him.
"I'm sorry." I mumbled.
  Zach took out a sharpie and wrote his name upon my wrist.
"Here." He said.
  "Next time you think you wanna harm yourself, look at my name. You'll be hurting me." He stated, and then walked out of the living room.
  He sat in the bedroom silently for a few moments, and I cried in the living room alone.