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The Only Reason to Go On
Deeper. Just a little deeper, a little farther. Up, up, her arm, as the blood trickled down, down, down, and across to fall and pool, and then sink into the fabric of her white cotton skirt. The dingy bathroom added to her state of mind, cluttering it further as a basement collected clutter from years and years of old furniture and clothing deposits. This wasn’t like her, to caress her flesh which jumped back as soon as the blade kissed her skin in the middle of the afternoon. She didn’t think her tears or the ache she felt within would wait until the house went to sleep. It was like a pressure building in her chest as her heart quickened its pace, and her breathing increased until she was gasping and spluttering for air, almost as if she had just swam a mile or two.
She was sweating and shaking as she gripped more tightly at the razor to make sure her next stroke would not cross over into the first, or the second. She completed the last of the three short lines, which were now bleeding freely, her arm tinged red. It was staining her, tainting her as her thoughts slowly changed from maddening insanity to serene calmness. She moaned in ecstasy as the pain that began to bubble in her arm began to take over, shaking her body from its origin until her toes were curling. And then, once the first wave of pain subsided, she realized she had to clean up; the broken razor with its bent plastic and bare blades sitting on the counter top near her, droplets of blood on the ground, her skirt drenched and red. Her hands were both bloody.
She held her cut arm under the cold water to wash it of any evidence. She was in a state of blissful euphoria. No matter what anyone said or done, the aftermath of the pain was always fresh in her mind, and in her young body. She shivered when she remembered exactly how it felt, to exist. The pain would go away for the time being, but the knowledge that she existed and that she was something tangible would linger until morning, when she would wake up for school, and feel like dieing again, because she forgot who she was. Why she was there. If she were truly alive, and something actually interactable, or if she were just on auto pilot; watching life fly by without her. Days were painfully slow, nights a thrilling adventure with the blade and her bathroom.
She wrapped her arm in a dark towel and began to clean the floor with strips of toilet paper to blot out the droplets on the ground before she flushed the evidence of her existence away. Her skirt would pose a larger problem. She’d have to wash it herself before her mother found it and began questioning her. She heard what some parents did to their children who indulged in the pleasures cutting brought. They sent them to a therapist, or they would change entirely and give their teen more attention, eventually smothering them and causing them to further sink into a depression as thick as molasses. She saw it happen, and knew it would hinder her reassurance of her being. She also knew they’d look for reasons. Answers to questions that weren’t there, and never would be. They’d put words into her mouth, and would tell anyone who would listen how their little girl was straying, and needed the type of help only a professional could offer.
How wrong they were, she thought. There wasn’t anything wrong with her. She got over the recent passing of her aunt, and had just improved her marks in school- she couldn’t be doing any better than at that precise moment, especially since she found a small bottle of laundry detergent she kept under the sink for emergencies such as this- or to consume if cutting didn’t churn her flesh enough, didn’t rattle her mind, or force her to understand what living meant. She undressed clumsily, as she only had use of one hand at that moment, and then shoved her skirt into the sink. She let the hot water run as she poured in the detergent. The bubbles were immediate, and were slowly turning a faint pink color. With one hand she worked the fabric, feeling the softness of the damp material in the warm water. The scent of the soap was refreshing. She knew if she hadn’t cut those three strips into the inside of her arm, this wouldn’t smell so lovely. The warm water wouldn’t feel so good.
She wished she could feel like that forever. Immortalize herself in that one moment where no one could see her, where no one could make her life a living hell, or try to lull her into a false sense of security as they had been doing at school. Girls whom she thought were her friends begun changing. No more were their cheery faces a welcomed sight: now they were the smiling faces of the devil himself. They glowed with hatred and cruelty towards her. They took every opportunity to lash into her, ripping her apart piece by piece, and being sure to scatter the fragments. Her razor was the only way to retrieve them. They knew there was something wrong with her. They knew, because they always asked. They always told her they were there for her if she ever needed to talk. But talk is cheap, and doesn’t change anything. She tried keeping a journal, but the words bled into one another as quickly as it took for her arm to bring forth a fresh river of life, of hope.
Hope that someday they’d stop. That someday they would understand what it was like to have everything and nothing at all. She didn’t need a reason to cut herself just as some of those girls didn’t need a reason to be cruel to her. The universe was never kind to her, and in return, she wasn’t kind to herself. She understood the risks, but embraced them. She knew one day she could go too far, cut a major artery or have to tell her parents. Or her so called friends. She thought they would tire of bothering her, of following her around the cafeteria at lunch as she tried to find a place to be alone in the presence of others. She tried to be a wandering ghost, there but unseen, but it didn’t work to her advantage. Her constant long sleeved attires made people suspicious. Let them be, she thought, finishing up in the sink, and letting the water drain. Her cut arm was shaking terribly as she tried to muster strength to wring out her skirt to hang it over the shower curtain bar to dry. The towel slipped, and she saw her arm was a bloody, orange mess. The towel spread the blood around her arm.
A small price to pay for feeling alive. A small price to pay in order to exist. The mess could be cleaned, a lie formulated to keep her secret safe. She wasn’t a newbie at this business, and hadn’t been for quite some time. She knew her way around a razor. She knew how to hold it just right so it didn’t slip. She knew how much pressure to apply for a skin wound, and deeper. She knew when to stop… when to start up again. She can get over the stinging feeling as flesh not able to heal was ripped aside time and time again. She can move past the faces mocking her, with their fake concerns for her. Her parents didn’t care. She was surprised they didn’t know. One thing she’d never be able to get over, though, was her addiction to living. There was only one way to live, and only one reason to keep going on; her razor.
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