AN: I had to write this for my freshman seminar. I found it to be very powerful. Tell me what you think?

Scars

It was dark; as dark as a closet should be. The closet was my refuge. It meant so much to me. I could hide in my closet. I could shut myself out away from the world. Everyone had a skeleton or two in their closet. Me? I had the entire body. I hid in the corner buried with clothes, timid and scared.

It was so quiet. No one in the house stirred. I could hear my ragged breath and my heart racing. I was afraid that someone would find me while, at the same time, hoping for just that. Sitting still did nothing for my nerves. No one could see in, but that meant that I couldn’t see out. I had no way of knowing what was going on. I needed to find a new hiding spot, but I had to choose carefully. I had just made the biggest mistake of my life and I’ll be damned if I was going to let anyone see me like this.

I slid the blankets and old winter coats off from on top of me and tip-toed towards the door. The door creaked open, casting moonlight into the darkened room. The room adjacent to the closet was empty so I stepped into the light. I looked down at my naked body, ashamed. I ran my fingers along my skin, feeling each rip and tear. I had cut myself again. This time it was the worst. I wiped the tears from my face, smearing the blood from my hands as I did so.

Sixty- three. That is how many there were. Sixty-three. I had cut myself sixty-three times in one sitting. I could see the marks cover both arms, and legs. They were heavy on my chest and down to my navel. Even my fingers, shaking terribly, managed to uphold tick marks. The moon-shadows that played upon my skin made me feel like a monster. A troubled Frankenstein.

After I was sure the coast was clear, I walked into the bathroom and turned on the lights. The fluorescents made my eyes sting after being in the darkness for so long. I wet a washcloth with hot water and ran it across my skin. It burned with its first touch but I quickly became numb to it. I bathed off some of the blood that had caked to the wounds. Sometimes the washcloth only made them bleed worse, but mostly it did no good. The marks were still there, redder than ever.

I couldn’t bear to look in the mirror so I left the bathroom without a second glance. Downstairs, I could hear angry voices and the clash of metal pans and dishes. Supper was being prepared. The thought made me sick to my stomach. I was starving, my last meal being supper the previous night, but that wasn’t what bothered me. The simple fact was that we ate supper as a family. I would have to sit at the table with these heinous disfigurements all over my body. I was too ashamed to tell them what I had done.

Under the heavy pile of jackets in my closet was a small grey hoodie that I gently put over me. I wore nothing underneath, wanting as little as possible to rub against the wounds. It covered everything perfectly except for my hands. Perhaps no one would notice? The loud, buzzing timer on the stove sounded as my que to head downstairs. I stole a glance at my face and buried my face in cold water as to cover up the fact that I had been crying. I put on my best smile and walked to the banister.

Everyone had already said grace as was beginning to eat whenever I walked into the room. As soon as I picked up my fork, my daddy noticed my hands. He asked what I had done to them. I shrugged and told him that is was an art project. It was nothing to worry about because it would wash off in a day or two. I blushed and let out a sigh of relief whenever he continued eating. I would have to be more careful. I shook down the sleeves of the hoodie and covered my hands with them before picking my fork up a second time.

Supper was so quiet. My usually obnoxious brothers were even calm. It was a good thing, too, or someone would have noticed that I haven’t said a word past my previous discussion. After supper, I scraped my plate clean and took a step towards the stairs but I was intercepted by my mother. She asked me if I was okay and if I needed anything. I shook my head no. She bade me goodnight and reached to pull me into a hug. I almost screamed from the pain. I pulled away as soon as I could without being suspicious and ran upstairs with tears in my eyes. After sobbing into a worn-out stuffed animal that I have had almost all of my life, I rolled over and stared at my ceiling. There was a poster of stars that I gazed at, making the same wish on each one. I wished I didn’t hurt anymore. My eyelids gradually became heavy.

I slept silently. I wouldn’t exactly call it peaceful, but there were no nightmares to speak of. When I woke, I had forgotten all about my fit of self-destruction until I went into the bathroom for my shower. I remembered later hearing a voice while I was in the closet. I sat there praying to God to please not let me hurt anymore. To this day, I don’t remember what made me so devastated that I couldn’t find a way out. All I know is that God reached his hand out for me and told me to get up. I didn’t want to get up, ever. I would have been happy to just die there. But, I knew there was a reason. God needs me for something. Looking at my body now, no one could ever tell that I was a cutter. Of the sixty-three that I left that night, only a small few remain. They are my reminders. They remind me that it could be worse or, when it is worse, that it does get better. I have a purpose and a reason for being here, no scar could change that.