English Class Shenanigans

Disordered and Disarrayed: Don't Fear the Blade, Fear The Wielder

* This one is incredibly dark, even by my standards. Please be warned

I have never wanted to stop existing as much as I do right now. I'm a horrible person. That's all there is to it. Why doesn't it hurt? Dragging a blade through my skin should be unpleasant as anything, and it should not be something that makes me feel better. And yet here I am, desiring the knife against my arm every time I yell or get yelled at. Why don't I feel? Why? Why can't I?

Why doesn't it hurt? The blade that slices through my skin should spark the nerves. It should send shockwaves through my arm and into my mind telling me to stop.

Why are you causing yourself pain? Why are you tearing yourself apart?

Because I have to, I tell myself. It's the only way I can make sure that I still feel anything.

But it still doesn't hurt. I feel it. I feel as the sharp metal edge presses into my veins, drawing just a small line of blood. But it doesn't hurt.

It relaxes me, brings along a sense of tranquility. Everything will be okay because you can feel this. You can feel something other than anger or guilt or sadness. If you stop yourself from feeling sad you might feel happy for once.

But it never goes that way, does it? Happiness isn't a lack of sadness, it's the opposite of sadness. A lack of sadness, well that's just me.

I held the blade in my hand, a fresh cut having opened a gateway for the thick red liquid to make its escape down my arm.

I hurt myself today.

I stared at the slim metal object.

To see if I still feel...

Nothing made sense anymore.

What have I become? My sweetest friend.

Life didn't have a purpose. Nothing did.

Everyone I know, goes away in the end.

We're all going to die at one point, why suffer before it happens?

And you could have it all.

I know that people would miss me but I also don't think I can last much longer.

My empire of dirt.

The blade glimmered in my hand.

I will let you down.

It wouldn't be hard.

I will make you hurt.

I put the blade away as Johnny Cash's words rang true through my entire being.

I fear myself with a knife. With a razor blade. With anything. I'm scared of me. I'm terrified that I will screw up and come to the finalizing realization that nothing matters. What happens if I decide one day that death would be nothing compared to the suffering of my life? I dread the day it comes, but in the end, all we are is Dust In The Wind, right? All that we are is tiny pinpricks of dust in the grand scheme of the universe. What am I supposed to do about that? Am I supposed to be happy about it?

Happiness is something I haven't felt for a long time.

I can't see myself being happy about anything for a very, very long time.