Take Me Away

Finding Me

Phils pov

I sit on my bed, green and blue sheets curled around my fisted hands. I look longingly at my drawer in my side table. I promised myself I wouldn't, not since I moved in with Dan, but it's too much. I feel as if I am literally being pulled to it, and eventually, I give in. I give in to the thoughts people have put in my head: I. AM. WORTHLESS.

I sit on my knees in front of my table, slowly sliding the drawer out onto my lap. After rummaging around for a bit, I find and pull out a blue box, cleverly disguised as a retainer case. With effort, I fling myself back onto the bed. I put my head in my hands and curl into a fetal position, wiping my tears on my bedspread. After sobbing for a while, I swing my legs down off the side of the bed and grab the blue box. I stare at it for a while, shaking my head. I pop it open. Inside there are bandages, antisceptic, and gauze.

And blades.

I look at my collection, sadly wondering how I came to own so many. I decide on a blade from the inside of a pencil sharpener, knowing it will bring the most sting, but the smallest scar. I press the blade on my soft skin of my inner forearm, noticing the faint lines of past regrets. I take a deep breath. The red liquid is soothing to watch. Its beautiful, the way in contrasts, dappled, against my snowy white skin. I'm focused. Too. focused.

Footsteps. I hear footsteps in the hall. Nonono. I look at my phone. Its time Dan would be home! How did I get so stupid? "Shit," I mutter under my breath. I grab a towel from the floor and dab my arm, trying to clean quickly. Stings.

"Phil?" I hear Dan call out.

I contemplate not answering. "Yeah?" I call back.

"Where are you?"

"Just got out of the shower!" I yell, multitasking with cleaning my arm and putting the blades away.

"You okay?" He calls, closer. "You sound weird."

"Fine!" I accidently drop the box. It swings open, sending blades sliding everywhere. I watch in horror as the blade I used- still covered in blood- slides under the door. Damn. I can't open up and get it because Dan would see me and know i wasnt in the shower. I settle for sitting on my bed, expecting him to walk away. What I do not expect is for him to open the door, holding the bloodied blade in his hand. He stands with his head bowed, hand resting on the doornob, looking at the sadness he held in his other hand. There was a long silence. I don't know what to do, so without lifting my head, I say as quietly as possible: "Get. Out."