A story about young Demetria Anna York. An anti-self-harm story. (Even though that's a bit hypocritical... haha...) Actually it is a true story of some recent events in my life, altered to be someone else's.
In my experience, It starts with a cut. One small cut when you're upset. Seemingly, that thin cut fixes everything. But that relief doesn't last long. No, in fact, soon you need to make four or five cuts for it to make any difference. Then they will become deeper. Almost instinctively, you'll hide them away. You'll wear long-sleeved shirts as opposed to t-shirts, pants versus shorts. Maybe you'll be ashamed, maybe not, but either way, you'll hide the cuts away. People see, they make you stop. At least, that's my experience on the subject. Who am I, you ask? That depends on who you ask. To my parents, I'm Demetria Anna York. To countless others, I'm a whole list of awful names. To me, though, I'm Raven. I go by nothing else. I'm just your "average mellow-dramatic" teenager. Only, I harbor a dark secret that I described only moments ago. My neck, arms, stomach, hips, and legs are marred with this secret. I grew my dark, ugly hair out awhile ago, so I didn't have to worry about the scars on my neck being quite so visible, but I still habitually wear turtlenecks. I only wear jeans, even though sometimes denim is a harsh, painful material. There are a whole range of people that hold the same secret as I, honestly. Boys, girls, the popular and unpopular. Adults, children, and teens. Successful or unsuccessful. Some people do it differently - like taking a lighter to their own skin. I tried that once, but it went something like this:
Shaking, my hands fought to turn the lighter on. After a few moments failure, I paused, breathing deeply. Then the flame flicked on, and as the heat lapped at my skin, I hissed and dropped the lighter. I cursed softly, and wondered how anyone could stand it.
Burning wasn't my most successful venture. I want this to be, though. I wan to to be a hypocrite and tell you not to harm yourself, to warn you of your possibly ruined life. I can't even scratch an itch without my friends worrying, since I went through a "scratching" phase during the school hours. Whenever I'd get upset in school, I would scratch open the back of my hand or claw my arm. The scabs were never pretty, and they simply provided another way for me to hurt myself. Everybody keeps an eye on me still, it seems. That may just be me, but I still feel like they are checking to make sure I don't do anything.