Six o’clock. I wake up. I get dressed slowly, and wait on the corner for that ugly chrome yellow beast to come barreling up the street. I get on the bus, and sit in middle seat. Away from the back where the pompous “cool” kids sit. And away from the front where the screechy loud little kids dwell. I sit and lean against the window. I look at the sky, dark gray, streaks of lightning flash, loud thunder booms low in the sky. I look at the slick black streets. I look at the raindrops. I don’t feel anything, I’m almost numb.
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I started when… I can’t even remember. I just know that cutting myself was an escape from my life. Every day I felt more and more useless. Digging the dull-bladed kitchen knife that I took from the kithen made me feel that I was cutting out all the anguish in my life. I do remember the day I did it, I took the knife and when I was in the shower I thought I could hide it on my leg above my ankle, so I sliced. Above it, under it, on it. Soon there was a nice maroonish itchy cut on my leg.
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I am a girl who never quite grew up. When I was thirteen I met a guy and thought I fell in love with him. He was seventeen and so much more aware of the world and so took complete advantage of my innocence. He used to get me drunk and then touch me. A few weeks after that he made me smoke cannabis and ended up raping me. This rape became an almost daily thing, he would chain me to his bed and put something in my mouth so he couldn’t hear me say no. Sometimes he’d blindfold me, it was then that I would allow myself to cry, never when he could see me would I cry because if I said something to him he would put a pillow or something over my head and tell me to shut up.
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