tired yet? ||cashby||

Chapter 14

After crawling into bed, I tucked my knees into my chest and stared at the wall. He hates me. The feeling in my body was disgusted and scared, and beyond everything, sad. Had I honestly just lost the best thing in my life because of the past? Staring into my mirror from cross the room, I watched as tears slipped down. I looked so weak and pathetic, and the sight made my blood boil.

"You should've died," I whispered hatefully, staring at myself, and then my wrist. That scar haunted me for so long, constantly there, never to cease. I just wanted to forget winter. I needed to forget winter. All the memories came flooding back, and no matter how hard I tried to be okay with them, they still made me hate myself.

5 months of depression, 2 months of being suicidal, never self harmed before, and it was January 3rd of my freshman year. The first day back to school after Christmas holiday. I had no idea what I was doing. Walking into school that day is something I really don't remember, but I know it must've happened anyways. 1st, then 2nd, and 3rd period all passed in a haze, viscous thoughts attacking my mind. These were days that I never wanted to see again, but they stick in my mind like a damned infection. That little razor blade I alway kept in my pocket was burning a hole against my leg, begging to be used; I'd never had the guts before, but coming back to the florescent lighting and mindless work was enough to push me over the edge. Colors blurred as I made my way to the bathroom, tears sliding down my cheeks. Just let me die. I hated myself so much, each and every inch with a fire that singed everything I touched. Upon walking in, I found myself in front of a mirror. Disgusting.

Unaware of what I was doing, my fist landed hard against the reflective glass. Then again, and again and again, until I was sure it would never break. Sighing, I slid down the wall and sat on the cold tile floor, hearing my movements echo throughout the bathroom. You're all alone. There was a lump in my throat, and a churning in my stomach that made me want to sleep forever, never to know the pain of loneliness again. Slowly, I slipped the cold blade from my pocket, looking at my own reflection in it. I'd never wanted to die more than right at that moment, and it sickened me.

Disgusting. Disgusting, fake, pathetic. I didn't think those were my own words, but I could never really tell. As soon as I began, I realized I wasn't sure what exactly I was doing. How deep do I go? Where? How far can I push myself? A line formed down my wrist, suddenly gushing blood. More blood than I'd ever seen before, and a dizzying pain hit me. The sight of it made me want to vomit, and I quickly tossed the razor into the garbage can and grabbed a bunch of paper towels, vainly trying to stop the bleeding. My head became lighter, but I could finally understand that I'd gone too far, and the prospect of dying here on the floor of the high school bathroom was terrifying. What have I done? It dripped in a pool in front of me, and I began to panic. Sharp, crisp pain slammed at my head and stomach as I lost awareness. A blurry figure walked in then, but I couldn't tell who it was.

"Alan, what the fuck!" the person screamed, voice being drowned out by echoes of itself in my mind. Things began to go hazy, overlap each other. All I could feel was this: I need help.

"P-please," I mumbled, my head dipping. It raced out, and came back a minute later with more blurry figures. They all started speaking, dragging me up by the shoulders and asking questions. By that time, through, I was long gone.

I woke up in a hospital a few miles from my school, with my whole family watching me like they couldn't understand. I didn't understand, either. No one knew how I felt, no one ever asked, no one really seemed to care. But I could feel it, as soon as I looked at the stitches on my wrist and the looks of my parents, I knew only one thing. I need to get better.

Ever since then, I'd just been trying so hard, so tenaciously to move upwards. It was therapy, and crying myself to sleep, and repeating good words, and doing things that made me happy. But, finally, I was getting somewhere. That was all I needed- to get somewhere.