Scars

I once knew a boy who liked to use razors. Well, not only razors. Anything sharp would have sufficed—a pin, a broken piece of glass. He liked to use these sharp things to make marks on his skin, marks that would make him feel better. You see, he hated himself and he hated everyone else. He hated his friends, he hated his family. He hated everyone. He was filled with so much hatred that he needed to let it all out. And he did so with the power of scars.

                This boy had lived a normal life. He wasn’t popular or handsome or sporty, but he had friends. Normal friends. He was an only child to a normal mom and a normal dad. He went to a decent school and his family had a decent house. He wasn’t supposed to be sad and lonely and angry, he was supposed to be happy, like the rest of them. But he just couldn’t bring himself to appreciate all that was supposed to be regarded as enjoyable and fun and pure. At the age of 15, this boy fell in love. His girl had pretty brown eyes and olive skin. She smiled with pearly white teeth that rivaled the sun. He always believed that was the first and last time he actually felt. It was the first and last time he wanted to be happy. But this girl broke what he assumed was his heart. She wanted someone that wasn’t him, someone that wasn’t a psycho. So, she broke up with him through Facebook. Then he started cutting. He saw the shiny razor, pressed it against his skin a made the first cut. He found it fascinating and exhilarating and beautiful. He hasn’t stopped since. The top of his thighs, his shoulders, his stomach were all filled with lines that told stories of all that he had been through. But, no matter how much he bled, he would always find more reasons to cut. Always.

                He was unhappy. That, he knew for a fact. He hated himself for being cliché, but he knew that he didn’t belong. The older he got, the farther away he wanted to be from the world. And the farther away he wanted to be from the world, the more scars he got. His parents weren’t helping either. When he heard his classmates blab about their parents expecting too much from them, he always thought that they were being overdramatic. No one had it as bad as him. He wasn’t the smartest boy in school, but he had a pretty good head on his shoulders, a good enough head to pass an entrance exam to a prestigious school. Yet, for some unfathomable reason, since he didn’t get the result his father wanted, he was called an idiot. Great. And his dear mother, ever so caught up in her own world that she didn’t even know he took the exam in the first place, seconded the unjustified motion. “Parents of the Year”, he thought sarcastically. The only solution, of course, was to use his favorite shard of glass, tucked away behind his beloved books.

                But, a part of him believed that he wanted to be unhappy. He made a game out of finding out all the problems with his life and comparing it to the seemingly mundane problems of his peers. In a “Most Depressing” contest, his problems always won. He looked down on all those people who thought they had it bad because he knew in his heart that his problems would always be much, much worse. Some part of him didn’t want to get better even if he knew there was something wrong with him, because, at least he could finally have something in common with his favorite book characters. At least he had a story.

                 

The End

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