Cutting Into LifeMature

This is a rough story that started from another prompt from the blog: http://jpaulroe.wordpress.com/
This could be a very intense story, especially for those who may empathize with or relate to the protagonist. It is solely a work of fiction, and does not reflect the life of the author.


    I needed to feel something, wanted to know I was alive. The blade of the knife pressed sharply into the skin of my wrist. With one quick slice the blood flowed, and the pain that followed made me smile. I took six more cuts, slowly savoring each one. Then cleaning the knife I returned it to its hidden place, and I waited for my wounds to heal.
    I haven’t always been this numb. Lately, things have been overwhelming. People never think I’m the one who acts out. My long-sleeves conceal my nightly secrets. The smile I falsely wear convinces everyone that I’m okay. Perhaps that’s why they don’t ask, but sometimes I wish they would. My parents are too perfect to see their daughter failing, it helps that they’re never around.
    School is utter misery. I’m sure a few of the other students have figured it out by now. Maybe it’s my black clothes, or the look in my eyes that says to fuck off. My escape is the art room. Things are wonderful the minute I walk in through the door. The smell of paint reminding me of life. I still can’t confide in the teacher, the maternal figure I love. I thinks she already knows, but doesn’t say anything. When I am around her, it’s the first time I feel safe.
    Away from school, books and music are what keep me sane. I turn the volume of my stereo up, I can’t hear the world, and they can’t hear me. I cry myself to sleep every night, and wake up cursing the day.
    Tonight I light a candle and let the wax drip onto my thigh. It’s new and exciting, the heat mellows and I continue, drawing a rose. I picked the dried flower from my pale flesh. Sitting in the dim room, I find the knife and begin a series of cuts on my other wrist. This time I make ‘x’s.   
    I return from school and my mother is waiting for me at the table. Shit. What now. I think. My oversized sweatshirt hides my story. She seems happy, but I could easily be misreading her. I hope that I have covered my tracks, and that she hasn’t found something out of the ordinary. I think it would kill her to know that her baby girl is falling apart and broken. When she doesn’t say anything, I offer a greeting. She returns it and asks how my day was. I don’t want to be here, but I sit, and lie about the enjoyment of my classes. She’s pleased with this and launches into how she wishes we spent more time together. Great, a pity fest. At least it isn’t about me. I tell her that it’s okay, I understand and I’m sure we will get a chance to do something soon. She smiles and thanks me. Before this drags on any longer, I excuse myself saying I have a lot of homework and I’ll be upstairs in my room if she needs me. She stands and gives me hug, it’s the first one in a while she must really be feeling guilty. I can’t help but feel a little sorry for her, if she only knew how pathetic her daughter really was.  

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