Things seem to slowly be collapsing around me. I mean, literally, collapsing. Even my laptop is failing for crying out loud. All I have is music. Loud, screaming rock at levels enough to make the window panes hum. I sink into my bed, curled up on myself, sinking into a numb stupor. Its impossible to think with the music this loud and I no longer have the will power to get up and do anything, though there is a pile of books on the floor reminding me that tomorrow, there will be hell to pay from my teachers. I just can't summon up the courage to care.
Eight years of training down the fucking drain. I know thats not the case but I can't help feeling like it. I just failed my black belt grading. I can take it again, but its the fact I failed. Again. Like I've failed so much recently.
I can't do this...
I shake my head, cutting off the thought before I finish it. I know what comes next though, and my memory whispers it to me.
..I'm not good enough for this. I'm not good enough for anyone. I'm a failure, a fuck up. They all deserve someone better. Someone stronger, who won't mess up like I do. They'd all be better off without me.
"Fuck." I mutter, inaudiable over the music. I roll off my bed, ignoring the familiar protesting of my muscles. I pace, unable to keep still now. Nervous energy drives me to pick up rubbish, creased clothing, paper, anything thats not in its rightful place. Anything to keep my hands busy and my attention distracted. But in the back of my mind an image still rises, unbidden.
Highlighted by the light of the alarm clock, the blade looks dull. There's no expression on my face as I expose the pale skin of my inner arm, which seems to almost glow. My stomach tenses ever so slightly as I swiftly bring the blade down. Again. Again. Again. A heartbeat. The familiar sting, the blood wells up. A gallows smile. Again. Faster. Deeper. My mind goes numb and I know its enough, the room spinning slightly. I glance down. The pale skin is broken by dark, slender slashes, throbbing now. My breathing is slow and steady, the ache in my chest now gone. I glance at the blade, no longer shining. Not as dull as it had appeared. I pick up the cotton pad, soaked in antibacterial ointment and clean the blade, replacing it under my mattress. Good work old friend. I then turn the cloth to my arm, by breath escaping in a hiss as the wounds burn briefly, sting, then settle to the more familiar throbbing. My hand less than steady, I dispose of the evidence and cover my arms again. I curl back under my duvet and let sleep claim me, soothed.
I go to my mattress, pulling it back. I pick up the object there and hold it, the late afternoon sun catching it in my hands, making it shimmer enticingly. Hello old friend.