I had been cutting now for a few months. I never thought I’d see the day where I brought pain to myself. But I couldn’t let it. It just happened. One time while my friends were over, people were acting stupid and there it was, that beauitful silver color knife just sitting on the table, screaming, “Use me! Use me!” And I did. The first night it was only one or two marks, enough to calm me down, but as the days, weeks, months went on, they kept growing. 10, 20, 30… I couldn’t stop. It was like a drug, a sweet candy, something that calmed me down. I couldn’t understand the emountional pain I was going through, but physical pain, that I understood. Soon it got out of hand, my cuts were growing closer and closer to my wrist and I knew I needed help. Not only for self-injuring myself, but for now what seemed to be suicidal thoughts.
My mother hadn’t known for the longest time, and when I wore a short sleeved shirt, my fresh cuts were noticible, and I just would say, “My friends’ cat did it,” or “I fell skateboarding.” The weakest things I could think of, and the sad thing was, my mother believed them, until one night.
On Valentines day, my mother’s birthday, I had a friend or two over, (actually, it was about 6) and the house was a bit messy. I had left for the night, going outside to go walking, with my friends of course. Most of them weren’t close friends, just people of the area I lived in, someone to hang out with. My closest and dearest friend was with me that night. We came home shortly after my mom came home, I had to clean up the little mess, which was nothing big. But she flipped out — throwing things at me, and hitting me, hard. My friend broke out crying and so did I — both of us sitting in my room trying to tell my mom that hitting her children was wrong. She didn’t care and wouldn’t hear us. I tried to leave, to get away from her, but she wouldn’t let me — I even tried to jump out the window, but she slammed my head into it and choked me by my hoodie. This was going to far, and she had threatened to call the police, which turned to be more then a threat, she really did it. Which lead to her, me and my mom going to the hospital at midnight, checking me into the crazy ward, and then sending me home after realizing that couldn’t do anything for me. I had it worse, I needed the sense of calming that my own blood brought to me, like so many others did. But I couldn’t — my life was put on hold, and everything started to crumble.
Now I’m better, at least, they seem to think so. I’m still depressed, but I don’t show it — I still cut, and still use the lame words of, “I fell skateboarding,” and “the cat did it,” and they still believe me. Sometimes, I think that I don’t want to get better — I just want to stay in my little room, every night with a knife hidden behind my bed for whenever I need it, waiting so I can just slit my skin and see the cold blood. I haven’t cut for a few weeks, trying to make it seem like the skateboard really did do it — or something. The urges are still there, stronger than ever, and no matter how much therapy I get, or how much doctors tell me I need to stop — I don’t think it’s ever going to happen. I’ll always need to see my own blood to know that I’m still alive.
Black Vinyl: A Short Story
Today everything is black. The sky is even black, though people tell me it’s blue. I see the trees, how they’re blooming their beautiful green spring colors — but from where I stand, it’s all black. I walk by people, they call something, maybe it’s my name, maybe it’s a cruel word, but I don’t pay attention, I keep walking with my backpack slung over my shoulder, thumping as I step. School isn’t that far, it’s a ten minute ride on the bus, which I don’t take — normally, my mother drives me, but today she had to leave early, and I was stuck riding the bus.
I now stand alone at the bus stop, people everywhere, laughing and talking, giggling and smiling. But I, I just stand, staring blankly ahead, waiting for that big yellow ugly thing to pull up. After about two minutes of waiting, it pulles up and everyone rushes to get on, but I’m shoved and pushed away, and I end up being one of the last people on, which means no seat, isn’t this a perfect start to a perfect day?
We get to the school and I head for first hour, which is math, and it’s boring. For the next two hours, I got through boring first and second hour — then lunch. I get to see my friends, but it’s different now. My girlfriend dumped me, and all my ‘friends’ take her side over mine. I still sit with them, but I’m alone. I eat nothing, food is posion to me, so I just sit and stare, something I’m good at, until I realize there’s a piece of glass in my spongebob hoodie pocket. I quickly get up and run to the bathroom, slam the stall door behind me, lock, and press the clear glass against my pale skin, and now I’m flying. The cold blood pops up and I love it, I know I’m still alive, and I feel relieved. I just let it bleed, I don’t even feel like cleaning it up, a dangerous thing to do while in school, but I don’t care. I leave the bathroom and return back to class.
It’s now 6th hour, the last hour in the day, moments before the bell rings. “Beep Beep Beep.” It’s off and I’m running down the hall to get on the bus and get home, the ride is easier, I get a seat and just relax now.
Within 10 minutes I’m home, and I run to my room and search madly behind my bed for my knife. A sleek silver and black knife, with ridges on it. I place it against my arm and there’s more blood on top of what’s dried up. I scream, not of pain, but of pleasure; this is what I love. I need it everyday, more and more… The blood, the pain, the pleasure, it all lets me know that I’m still alive.
I put the knife down and look around, everything is still black — the black vinyl on the walls…