..::Bleed Me::..

The razor glided smoothly across the skin of my arm, leaving behind a thin line of blood. The soft hiss it made soothed me, numbed me from the pain of the outside world. I watched, eyes glazed, as the thick, red liquid leaked from my body, running in tiny rivulets over my pale arm. It wasn’t enough. I squeezed until I made a small sound in the back of my throat, and the blood came faster, trailing over the other scars. Yes, this was cut number fifty nine, it would heal nicely, leaving a lovely scarlet-colored scar in its’ wake. My body is a cutting board: Razor, knife, glass, fingernails, it doesn’t matter, as long as it cuts. The blood was flowing faster now, this cut was deeper than the rest, maybe a little too close to my wrist. But that silly, me, commit suicide? No, this is different, cutting isn’t dangerous, it’s a method of healing. It numbs my body, a pleasant tingling that fills me with warmth. But it’s my little secret. One that I hide beneath baggy clothing and sometimes cover-up.

The tiles are cool against my cheek, black and white like my polka dot skirt that’s lying on my bed in the other room. I don’t remember lying down. I can’t move, and I watch, dimly aware of the red staining the cracks between the tiles. I giggle. That’s going to be a pain to clean up. There’s a knock on the door, loud and thunderous, it makes my head ache. It’s my mother, I can hear her frantic voice from the other side of the door. ‘I’m fine mother, it will all be okay.’ I want to say, but somehow, I can’t get my mouth to move.

It’s harder to stay focused, and suddenly, I’m frightened. I’ve never been this out of control before. Sweat gathered on my upper lip, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. It hurt to breathe, my body felt like it was filled with lead. I was nauseous, and through it all, I could only think, ‘This is all your fault mom! If you had only listened to what I had to say, I wouldn’t have needed to cut myself!’ My eyes slide closed, the last thing I hear is my mother screaming and the door slamming against the wall. Then my heartbeat. And then, nothing.

It’s been three weeks since the incident, and they have me in therapy now. They say I was lucky to survive. Turns out I had hit an artery. Oops. They counted all my other scars. The doctor said I have fifty eight, but that’s only because he didn’t know that the long gash on my right arm was actually two separate cuts. I’m in the car now, on the way home, my mother hasn’t said a word to me since we’ve left therapy. She looks sick. I want to tell her she’ll feel better if she makes even a small cut on her arm, but I think she would take me back, and I don’t want to go.

We arrive at my house. It feels like I haven’t been here in forever. My mother mumbles something about getting lunch ready and heads off to the kitchen. I let my feet take me upstairs, down the hallway, and to the second door on the right. I only hesitate for a second before opening the door. I slip inside and quietly lock it. Sitting with my back against the wall, I pull out the razor blade I had stolen from the secretary’s desk at the institution. As the cold tip presses against my flesh, I laugh. There’s still blood in the cracks.