My First Cut
My parents are fighting again. And it’s a bad one too. All I’ve been hearing recently is shouting, when I turn up my music and try to block it out, they scream at me to turn it down. They don’t give a fuck about me, they don’t give a fuck what I feel, or think, they are totally oblivious to my mental state. For fuck’s sake, look at me! I’m a fucking psycho, and they still refuse to believe there’s something wrong, as long as I’m a “productive and conforming member of society”. Fuck society. It’s started again, I can hear them screaming in the hall, outside my room. There’s no way I can relieve the stress, and they don’t believe I have stress because I’m only 14, but wouldn’t that explain the high suicide stats? Oh, they don’t think I’d ever suicide, simply because they are my parents. Like I should be thankful to have them to look after me. Well I got news for you, I never asked to be born. If you agree with my parents, go read my diary.
The shouting’s started again, yet again. When it starts it never stops. I turn up my music and they all stop and suddenly realize i’m there and they’re standing right outside my room, as though it magically appeared out of fucking nowhere. So now my auntie comes in and acts as though there’s absolutely nothing wrong, like everything’s just dandy. I want to kill her. How can you pretend there’s nothing wrong? Are they trying to confuse me? Fucking worked.
I was so pissed off. There’s nothing I could do, I tried playing Quake, nope, I try writing songs, nope, nothing seems to relieve the stress. I glimpsed my knife on my table, shiny, gold plated buck knife. I grabbed it and flipped it open, admiring the shiny blade, turning it in my hands. I slammed my hand down on the desk and stabbed it hard. I’d heard cutting was good for relieving stress from Jelly Angel and Ivan, so I thought it’d be a good time to try it. I slowly turned the blade, digging it deeper in my arm. (It was just behind my wrist on my lower forearm.) Then I released the weight on it and just watched the blood trickle down my arm, making small pools and droplets on my desk. Then I pressed down hard and slid it across my arm as fast as I could. I felt the blade cut right through my skin as though it wasn’t there, and sprayed my shirt and hand with blood. It felt so good. It hurt like fucking hell, stinging, burning, ouching, and I loved it. Over the next hour, I cut about ten more times, not as bad as that, because most of the stress had gone, just for the pain. After I had gone into shock and nearly fainted from the amount of blood drying, clotting on my arm, I went and had a shower, to clean off the blood.