ASHTON'S P.O.V.
The rest of the school day went by fairly well. I only got made fun of twice. Now comes the part of the day I dread. The walk home. And surely enough, as soon as I get out if the school, I am pushed to the ground. I immediately curl into a ball, protecting my head.
"Aw, look at Irwin. Want your mommy?" Josh taunts. I feel kicks being delivered to my back, and I can tell there will be bruises.
After what feels like forever if being pummeled, the kicks stop. "See you later, fag," Josh sneers and his friends laugh, already walking away. When I am sure they are gone, I pick myself up from the ground and grab my bag. Then, I start limping home.
I unlock the door and head straight for my room. I throw my bag on my bed and rush to the bathroom connected to my bedroom. I snatch my chapstick from the counter. To anyone else it would look like I was very eager to moisturize my lips, but I knew the truth. Inside that chapstick bottle was not chapstick, but my one and only true friend.
My razor.
Eager for relief, I rip the lid off and shake out my old friend. I throw off my sweater and begin, and the thoughts begin, too. Weak. Cut. Loser. Cut. Fag. Cut. And so it continues. Insult and cut until I feel it is enough.
I watch the blood fall for a little while. The blood reminds me that I am still alive. That I, unfortunately, am not dead. After I am done, I am in a state of nothingness. I feel nothing but the sting of the cuts. All my worries are gone and all I focus on is the pain. No, pain isn't the right word for it. It is like a drug, and I am addicted; intoxicated.
After it wears off, the worry of being caught creeps in and I hurriedly clean up the blood with an old shirt. I toss the shirt under the counter and wrap up my wrist. Noth that I care about it, but I don't want it to soak through my sweater and be visible to everyone.
I walk back to my room and start my homework, like nothing just happened.
