Of Past Regrets And Future Tears

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You’ve been waiting for the screams to come. Waiting for it all day, because it’s always in the night they come.

And you’re never disappointed.

They always come.

They come out of nowhere, like a gunshot in the dark. One of them snapping at the other because of something one of them said, and then it goes from there. It’s routine. You think that they have started to wait for it, too, expect it, almost longing for it. Longing to let their feelings loose. To hurt someone. To hurt the one that hurt them.

You don’t think they ever meant to hurt you, but that doesn’t make it better.

You slide out off the bed, making as little sound as possible, even though you know that they are so caught up in screaming and shouting at each other that they won't notice you. But, that, too, is a routine. Because what if? What if they would notice you? Would they stop, paste fake smiles on their faces and ask what you are doing up? Talk to you like you're a child, like they always do?

As if you were a child.

You open the door carefully, looking out. There they are. Facing each other, eyes full of hate. Not hate for each other, but hate for what they have become.

You know that the real monsters don’t live under your bed. They live in your house, yes, and they wait for the night to fall, yes; but during the day, they don’t sleep - they make you breakfast, tell you to brush your teeth, tell you to be careful and do well in school; they seem to simply care about you and what you do.

And that’s the worst thing.

The screams are unusually loud and harsh this night, you notice. And you notice that something’s changed. Usually, there’s no violence, just words. Just words. As if words mean nothing.

Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words can’t hurt you.

You almost snort at that old saying. It’s bullshit. Complete bullshit. You know. She knows. He knows. You all know.

Your head jerks up at the sound of something breaking into a thousand pieces. You focus your eyes at the floor and see the family potray that used to stand on a shelf lying on there, the glass broken. In the picture, their hands are on your shoulders, and you’re all smiling, the American dream. But now, the broken glass makes the picture look all funny with the cracks and everything.

You smile bitterly. That’s how it should look. If they weren’t there, you would take it up and put it back on the shelf. It would look good, more true. More sincere.

In a second, you’re in the bathroom. They didn’t even notice you. They never do. Ever.

Again, you smile bitterly at the thought of what your so called friends would say if you told them that. That they never notice you, that you flee into the bathroom every night and do the one thing you both hate and love, the one thing you have control over, but also the one thing that has control over you. They would look at you and say that you’re just a normal teen who wants attention, and then they would treat you different, because they hate teens. Even though they are teens themselves.

Another second goes while you find what you need. It lies there in your hand, shiny and taunting in the white light of the bathroom.

It’s perfect.

Another loud and sharp word cuts through the air, leaving a long trace of hate behind it.

You think that the words they say might be so sharp that they cut through the air, but the love of your life is so sharp it cuts through anything.

Even things that don’t exist.

It’s cold on your skin; your naked, vulnerable skin, the one you have yet to learn to live in. The blade is so thin, so fragile, and yet it can cut through the most strongest of spirits, it can make it better and oh-so-much worse. Just like men.

You never go for boys or guys, you go for men. Which makes sense to you, since you’re not a child, and you don’t look like one either. You're not sure you like that, though.

That, growing up, you couldn’t control, just like pretty much everything else, but this, this wonderful thing cutting through your flesh, making blood run, you can control. That is, if you don’t let it take control over you. If you don’t let the pleasure conquer over the pain. It’s hard not to, but you’re used to it. You’ve had four years of practise, after all.

You see the blood run down on the white tub on which you are sitting, the dark red against the white. The poet in you says that it looks like marble crying blood. You say that it’s your pain, your hell, that is taking over everything that was once innocent about you. If there ever was anything innocent about you at all.

Tears almost fall over the relief of feeling the exquisite, perfect pain. It’s like that every night. You wait for the screams to come, even though you hate them, you need them, need the excuse. The excuse to use the blade, the excuse to hate, to love, to feel nothing yet everything at the same time.

Sometimes, the thought that you’re just a normal teen cross your mind. You don’t know, really, cause what’s a normal teen? What’s a normal teen supposed to feel? You don’t know, and frankly, you’re not really interested either. You don’t care. You don’t care too much anymore, about anything. And you don’t have a problem with not caring either.

And sometimes, you confuse yourself with all your thoughts and questions like; ’Is this feeling everything, or is it nothing at all?’

You hear the screams again, but this time, you’re not sure if it was from them or from inside your head. You’ve cut deeper than ever before. And it feels like Heaven and Hell at the same time.

You look down at the tub and realize that you’ve lost more blood than ever before as well. A little bit panic pass through you; how are you going to get it all away without them hearing? But then you calm down. Why worry about that now? Why not just live in the moment and worry about it later? You decide to do this, and, looking at your wrist, you also decide to cut just a little deeper. Just a tiny bit deeper. What harm could it do?

The cynic in you says that this is better than sex, and you can’t help but agreeing. Then you stiffle a laughter at the thought of your mother finding out that you’re not a virgin.

You know you should stop now, before you do something you’ll regret, but god, it feels so good! Even though the screaming stopped, you just lean back a little and close your eyes. So what that you might come to regret this later? You don’t have the strength to think about that now, you just want to enjoy the moment.

You’ll worry about it later.

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Author’s Notes: This is my first story on fictionpress, so please be gentle! It wasn’t very hard to write, actually. Go figure...