Scream Through Skin

Copyright, Marina

One, two, three, slice.
One, slice, two, slice, three, slice.
One, two, three, one two, three.
Repetitive and beautiful, the blood drips down, holding her gaze.
A scream wells up in her throat. She stifles the cry, and slices deep, screaming through her skin, smiling as the blood bubbles out.
She sighs in contentment.
She cleans, she bandages, and finally, she can sleep.

I started cutting almost two years ago, during the summer. It began with safety pins. I just scratched the skin, merely flirting with the thought. The scratches soon became more frequent and deeper. I found the act intoxicating and beautiful.

As the summer went on, the safety pins were replaced with razors from shavers. The cuts were deeper, and brought blood. I soon became addicted to the sight of my own blood.

This was the beginning of the hardest time in my life. I entered the eight grade severely depressed, with my arms covered in marks. I kept my arms covered in cuts, and the cuts kept me happy.

However, my friends soon found out, and told the school nurse, who told my parents. My parents simply told me I was crazy and that I needed to stop. I didn’t. Instead of cutting on my arms I cut on my stomach.

Months passed. I started a therapist who I hated, and I simply lied to her and told her I wasn’t cutting. I met a boy, and fell in love with him. Complications ensued, and he didn’t love me back. I broke down. It was summer again. I’d been hearing voices all year. I was cutting more.

I bought razor blades with a friend, who also cuts. I was surprised how deep, painful, and effortless the cuts were.

One sunday, I started hallucinating and having erratic thought patterns, which I couldn’t stop. That day was terrible, and it ended in a suicide attempt. I was placed in a psych ward, where I stayed for a month.

Two weeks out of the hospital and I was cutting again, deeper. I bought more razor blades, and cut the deepest I had ever gone. I was brought to the ER because I needed stitches.

I continued cutting every day for three weeks. My arms were marred and disgusting, but I still regard them with affection.

At this point in my life I have stoppped, and I haven’t cut in a month. The sad thing is, I know I will start again.


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