My scars tell my story. I started cutting when I was thirteen, beginning at my artillery veins, spreading downward to my wrists, and from there, my body became my canvas. Needless to say, my life has been an epic struggle since the moment my mother gave birth to me in a club full of thugs and strippers.
When I began first grade, I was subjected to bullying and it never really stopped. It's not my fault my disgruntled mother didn't bother to brush my stringy hair or wash my clothes.
Besides that, I've always struggled with obesity, except for now. (I'm recovering from anorexia. I couldn't take the constant judgement.) That is what happens when you are constantly depressed and you find comfort in whatever food you can conjure up. My parents always badgered me for that, but then again, when were they not chastising me or quarreling?
At the age of ten, I was kidnapped by two scraggly men driving a midnight black Chevrolet van. They aggressively ripped me from the protection of my bed, duck taped my mouth, tied my appendages with a rope, and tossed me into their vehicle.
I woke up in a small, damp basement. Over a series of six months, I was assaulted in various ways, the memories too heart wrenching to revisit. My mother, now a retired cop, came to my rescue. That'd be the only good thing the coward has ever done.
Left a dying victim of malnourishment, physical damage, and mental damage, life presumed. As you can imagine, it was worse than ever.
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This first scar represents the death of my best friend, Elizabeth Rose Winchester. Too bad it didn't mark my death as well. My stupid weak veins in my hideous, ridiculous body were too feeble from anorexia to produce enough blood to lose.
Cut number two coursed a lot deeper. I got this baby when I discovered that the love of my life, James Blake Brand, had cheated on me with my now deceased best friend. The only dependable people I had left in my life were my grandmother and father.
Seven months and twenty some odd scars later, my parents divorced. My father moved to Manhattan, New York with a, "teenage-looking foreign prostitute," or so my mother says.
So here I am, high and dry, in Salt Lake City, Utah with my deadbeat drunk of a mother. Life is a living hell.
That's when I made the final cut, and that cut changed my life.
My name is Alexa Jade Hill. I'm sixteen. I self harm. I want to die.
YOU ARE READING
Cutting toward Calvary
Fanfiction"Most girls my age are labeled by their cliques, their brands of clothing, or by the masks of their fake personalities they present to people. Me, well, my scars tell my story. My name is Alexa Jade Hill. I'm sixteen. I self harm. I want to die." L...
