Tattooed Emotions

19

Dan

I was falling apart.

My mind was berating me louder with each day that passed, my dad's fists getting more painful each time they beat my skin.

I didn't know what to do, or how to stop myself from crumbling.

I couldn't tell Philip. He could never know. If he did, he would turn against me, tell his mates - I'd be a dead man walking.

Abused and orphaned - emotionally scarred faggot that hurts himself just so he can be the causer of the pain for once in his weak, unforgiving life.

They'd get a lot of laughs from that.

Philip already had too much on me. He knew I was weak.

I'd broken down in his arms numerous times. He knew my dad beat me. He'd seen my family photos, gathered that something happened on my eleventh birthday. Sooner or later he would find out what.

I sat in the darkness of my room, staring out of the open window at the moonlight. There were no stars in the sky. Just a never ending black sky that filled me with a sense of dread. I was terrified to know what was beyond this life, the misery that I was stuck in - but at the same time I wanted to find out. Because it couldn't get much worse, right?

A blade lay in the palm of my hands, moonlight reflecting off it's surface. I'd gotten it from a pencil sharpener. That's the good thing about liking to sketch and draw. There was always an excuse to keep a pencil sharpener nearby. Just in case.

As I pressed the metal to my arm, I thought of all the things that had made me end up here at night, alone.

Philip hated me. I know he did. He told me he loved me when it was just us, but he always avoided being seen with me at school, thinking I wouldn't notice.
But I did.

He was embarrassed of me.

Unloveable

I wrote the word along my left arm, slow and deep with the blade, cursing myself as hot tears pricked my eyes and obscured my view.

Unimportant

Another long word, taking up the length of my right forearm, the more letters, the more the hurt.

By the time I had carved the last mark, I was choking back sobs, my tears falling into the wounds and making them sting more, forcing me to bite back the screams as I ran to the bathroom to clean the blood from my skin.

Red water swam down the drain, and I found it strangely hypnotising knowing that I was in control of it. It was my decision.

I pulled my sleeves down to cover my skin once more and looked at myself in the mirror, forcing my mouth into a wide, toothy smile - despite tears staining my cheeks.

In some ways it was useful having a tattoo that never changed. Because no one could tell what you were feeling. No one could tell you were breaking apart.

A smile will convince everyone you're fine.

And they have no idea it's all a lie.