It was coming back. Worse. The medicine had stopped working completely. Everything was falling apart again. I wanted out. Now.
My mind was everywhere. I couldn’t focus on one thing other than death. I cut myself over and over, each and every night, just to feel. Watching the blood pour out of my skin was a relief. I don’t know why though. It just was.
I had gotten even better at hiding my scars. I found places that would always be hidden by something. There was even a list of excuses on my laptop to blame the cuts on in case anyone saw them.
- My cat attacked me.
- My sirius came back.
- These scars were old.
- I fell down the stairs.
- I scraped up my leg on the concrete.
- I had a nightmare, and instinctively scratched my legs.
- My project involved drawing cuts on.
- My skin doesn’t react properly to shaving.
- I got bad rug burn.
- My dog climbed onto me.
Those are just some of the pitiful excuses I came up with. I felt safer with the file on my computer, giving me alibis to the scars. That way I had several excuses, so it wasn’t always just my cat, or tripping down the stairs. This list nearly took away my fear of being caught, because I would have an excuse for everything.
By now, it was almost my fourteenth birthday. I didn’t want to make it until then, though, but I knew there wasn’t much I could do. It was only days away, and there wan’t anyway to die before then. I just had to wait it out, and plan to die before my fifteenth instead of fourteenth. Of course, if something did happen before my fourteenth birthday, I would be absolutely thrilled, but I couldn’t count on it.