Story Without A Name

I pause by the door. I open it and walk in, watching the floor to avoid the loud spots. I get to my room unnoticed. My room consists of posters everywhere and damaged furniture.

Most of my posters are All Time Low and my brother's band. I pull off my sweatshirt and silently stand in front of the mirror. All the insults cross my mind and I cry silently, unable to look away. My scars show dark to my pale skin.

My actual cuts show bright red in comparison and I hiccup quietly. I unwrap the worse ones and walk into my bathroom. I wash my arm carefully and my white sink scares me. I get new gauze and wrap my arm back up.

I sit on the closed toilet lid and try to calm down. I glance at the cleaner wrist. I open the drawer beside me, pulling out a box. I look at all the clean, shiny razors. I get out one of the smaller blades, turning it over and over in my hand.

I close my hand over it tightly. It cuts deep into my palm. I cry louder, sobbing and drop it. I get up and let my palm drip into the sink.

(More of an excerpt)