This is wrote in a rather confusing way. (Wrote, and rewrote, and rerewrote) As pointed out to me by a friend, I keep changing my tenses. I have a reason for this, I really do. This is a short story, yes, but I wrote it as a monologue. When one doesn't think clearly, your concept of time, and meaning gets slightly confusing.

While this remains fiction, it is loosely based off fact. Behavior like this is not uncommon, and it is not something one is usually proud of. It's not a thing to sneer or roll your eyes at, it's a problem.

With that said, on with my ficlet! (Terrifyingly short ficlet!)

CUTS

I don't know how long I sat there and stared at the glistening silver blade. I started with just a small cut, just above the swelling vein pulsing in my wrist, it suited my need. Soon, they became long and deep, obvious to only those who like to stare. To feel the pain somewhere other than my heart was a sort of comfort. A longing need to be anything other than who I am drove me to it, still drives me.

I can remember how I would feel when my father would beat me, can still feel each crack of the hard leather across my back. Each strike snapping me back to a painful reality. For a long time it kept me awake to the world, fearful, deepening my depression. "Will he hurt me tonight, or will he simply pass out on the couch and forget all about me?" These questions plagued my mind day in, day out. Walking through school, head hung low, I should be ashamed. I was worthless, still am.

It's hard to think of my past pains as I watch them slowly flow out from the veins. Each new slice I make, I feel the abuse and the humiliation. I remember in my life, never wanting anything to do with anyone. I didn't care if I were ever loved, or if I ever loved in turn. I just wanted to be left alone. I wanted to be put off from the world, to just disappear into nothing. Now I crave to be seen, crave to be touched. How long will I distance myself from those around me? Why must I always be alone?

I will admit to thinking of death. The want to just close my eyes, for eternal rest to take over. I've laid the blade to my wrist crying, wanting to do it, but never having the strength. Ten new strokes would quell the anger and resentment. Walking down the street, or driving in my car, I would hope for fortuity, someone to take my life by chance. To do what I did not have the courage to do. To end my failed exsistence and let me die. Sometimes I find myself wishing my father would have just killed me.

I sit now and watch the crimson slowly flow down my arm, slide along my fingers, and drip to the floor. I contemplate my life. Pitiful thoughts coursing from my veins, liberation I can not give them from my mind. Will I ever be free from these memories, these feelings? I may not have the answers to those questions, but for now, I revel in the temporary release.