I knew I’d seriously messed up from the moment the metal tasted my blood. I started too deep. I had never started so deep. I knew I should have stopped right then; the amount of blood was unreal. I wasn’t able to pinpoint exactly what it was that compelled my shaking hand to glide the blade down the length of my arm, deepening the cut. I could never figure out exactly what it was that made me start in the first place. Sense was the furthest thing from my mind as I watched the red ink pour from my body. It was entrancing, it was beautiful, it was sickening, it was amazing, it was disgusting; I couldn’t look away. The blade was still between my fingers as I eyed my work. There was a lot of blood, more than I could ever remember drawing from one cut. Still the blade seemed to twitch on its own, wanting to dive back into my blood, to tear another gash in my skin.

It never hurt. It never felt like anything by relief, but suddenly a wave of sharp, intense, pain hit me. The blade fell, and I was shaken from my trance. The blood was still coming. I grabbed from the nearest piece of cloth, a dirty hoodie on my floor, and tried to wrap it around the gash. The injury was long, stretching from my wrist to just past my elbow. Damn, I probably hit a vein. I knew the dangers of cutting on my arm, which was why I normal kept to slicing up my thighs and legs. Places that like where slightly safer, and easier to hid. Not as though anyone ever expected me as a ‘cutter’. I wasn’t a thirteen year old, wanna be emo girl. No one ever expected the eighteen year old guy.

But if this bleeding didn’t stop soon I knew I’d be in trouble. The fear of death didn’t even cross my mind; I was more terrified of being outed as a ‘cutter.’ I tossed the blade under my bed, and kicked some papers and blankets under there, just in case. I knew I had to think fast, I was starting to feel dizzy. If I passed out now...everyone would know. I had waited too long to sit down and deal. I had let it bottle up for nearly a month. I had almost convinced myself that I was done with my habit, that I didn’t need the razor anymore .I had forgotten what exactly had triggered me, it was probably small, something most people wouldn’t notice, but months of bottled up pressure was suddenly released.

I don’t know why I first picked up the razor blade, and actually, it wasn’t always a razor blade, sometimes it was a shard of glass, or a random piece of metal, the occasional knife, or box cutter, anything sharp and handy. Only in the past year had I started using razor blades exclusively. I had them hidden all around my room. I had almost forgotten about them, they were so well hidden, but the moment I felt the need boiling beneath my skin, I suddenly knew exactly where each of the seven blades were hidden. The first time I cut, all I could remember was feeling blind, and numb, and just frustrated. My life wasn’t exceptionally horrible, wasn’t prefect, but who’s was? I wasn’t abused as a child, there was no traumatic event that caused me to hate myself; it wasn’t even about self hate. It was just that, whenever other kids learned coping skills, I was absent. I wasn’t suicidal. I wasn’t completely suicidal, anyway. I didn’t cut because I wanted to die, I cut because I would explode if I didn’t.

And I had denied myself that relief for months and it came back to bite me in the ass. I had gone too deep. Way too deep. I looked around my room, desperate for some idea. I was really starting to get dizzy and the amount of blood was getting ridiculous; it had soaked almost completely through the hoodie.

I stumbled to my feet. I had to call 911...I had to tell my parents. I had to come up with a story! I was leaning by my door, almost coming to terms with being outed as the sick freak I was, when the old shelf above my bed caught my eye. It was metal and jagged on the one end. Still trying to hold the hoodie to the gash, I climbed on my bed and tugged at the shelf. It was loose. Yes! It wasn’t the most convincing, but it was something. I tugged on it, like I was trying to grab for something, putting as much weight on the shelf as I could. I heard it creak and start to yield. I pushed down harder, as the room was starting to spin around me.

When the piece of metal finally did come undone I fell with it. It did scratch up my wrist a bit as it went down. If I hadn’t been holding my arm like I had, it would have scrapped me up pretty bad. Probably not as deep as my gash, but close enough.

My story set up, I tossed the soaked hoodie under my bed and stumbled to the bathroom where I grabbed a towel. I wrapped that tightly around my arm, before going into the livingroom. It was empty, my parents probably already in bed. I turned on the lights and picked up the phone; I hesitated, unsure if I really wanted to call an ambulance. I knew it was probably best with the amount of blood I had lost, but I figured I could more easily convince my parents of my story than medical professionals. And if I at least had them on my side. . .

A light in the hallway flickered on and the choice was made for me. My mom came out, wondering who was up at this hour; I didn’t realize it, but it was a little past midnight. My first reaction was to panic, but I remembered my story and the lie came easily from my lips. One thing about being the freak I was, lying wasn’t an issue. The few times my friends had seen a scar, I could explain the injury off without missing a beat. Sometimes the best answer had always been, “Oh...I really don’t know.” And play it off as a joke. I had found, the more I tried to explain, the worse it had sounded. So the lie about the shelf falling came easily. My mom was too shocked at the blood to really question me further.

The phone was forgotten as she hurriedly told me to get in the car, she’d be out there in a minute. I headed out to the car, nervous as I was coming up with the details for my story. It had to be solid. Convincing parents was one thing. They weren’t going to see me as anything other than their almost perfect son, but medical professionals were a little more objective. I couldn’t help but think...that was part of my problem, I never stopped thinking. The thoughts were racing around my head almost as fast as the blood was pour from my wound.

My parents came out, having dressed quickly and sloppily. I felt exposed. I held the towel tighter. They were both frantic and I felt guilty. I did this to myself, I didn’t deserve to be worried over. I didn’t deserve my dad driving frantically, disregarding traffic law to get his precious only son to the hospital before he went into shock from blood loss. I clenched my jaw. I deserve to bleed to death in some corner. I was a sick freak. I didn’t ask for it, but cutting, it was just part of me. I wished I could cope, and deal, like everyone else did. I wished I wasn’t dependant on those damned razor blades, and the sick sight of blood pouring from my skin. I needed to cut, and because I had gotten careless, my parents were wasting time, and worry over me. I let out a grumble and leaned against the window.

My mom turned around in her seat, looking at me worried; she was asking if I was okay. If I was dizzy or tired. I said I was fine. As I said before, lying was no problem.

I was just waiting for them to figure it out, figure out that the shelve wasn’t the culprit, and that title belonged to my own hand. The blood I was losing was the last thing on my mind. I would rather bleed to death than be discovered. My parents didn’t deserve that. They didn’t need to know that they had raised a sick freak. They didn’t need to know how fucked up I really was. I wanted to disappear into the car seat. I wanted to curl up and just hide. I pressed the towel harder to my arm; thinking maybe if I pressed hard enough the cut would disappear, and, that sick part of me, almost enjoyed the pain the pressure caused. It took my mind off of my parents in the front of the car and the fact that I was probably moments away from be discovered as some kind of mental reject.

Maybe I would just die here in the car. I didn’t want to die, but I hated this feeling of being so exposed, and no one even knew yet. I already felt like the world could see my inner most world, my inner most thoughts, everything.

The car came to a halt and I was jolted from my thoughts. The hospital. I felt somewhat relieved until I remember, fooling my parents was the easy part.

I was still dressed in pajama bottoms and an oversized tee-shirt and both were spattered in blood. I hissed as I carefully pulled the towel away, to better inspect the damage.

God. The cut was three times deeper than I had thought. I suppose it should have been hurting more than it was, but I was close to numb at this point.

The emergency room was close to empty, probably due to the odd hour. It wasn’t long until I was lying on a bed, my towel ripped away from me, while I was being poked and prodded. I didn’t understand the fuss. I just wanted to get my stitches and leave. Why did doctors feel the need to know so much? Did they feel it was their prerogative to know every little detail?

My mind was still buzzing. I was anxious about being outed . I was nervous about being in the hospital, under all these watchful, trained eyes. I felt as though they were just looking for a reason to dub me sick and cart me off to some institution, humiliate my parents, all because I just had a different way of dealing. Cutting wasn’t what had led to all this, it was me being careless. I shouldn’t have let it bottle up. I shouldn’t have cut on my arm. I shouldn’t have started do deep.

The blurs of movement around me slowed a bit, as a doctor was talking to me. My mother was sitting next to me, nervous, while my father was dealing with paperwork at the front desk.

He, the doctor that it, was saying how I had lost too much blood and needed a transfusion. He scolded us, mildly, for waiting so long to get to the hospital. I mumbled about how I didn’t think it was that bad. Lying was getting easier. I knew it was going to be bad from the moment the blade dove into my skin.

It was too long before I was being cleaned and stitched up. I had made it this far. So far no questions I couldn’t explain away. I had told my mother my story, she bought it without any questions. At least I had an ally. That could do wonders when combating nosy doctors.

The nurse started sewing me up. It didn’t hurt, but I hissed anyway when the needle went in. She commented on how neat, and clean the cut was, and asked again, what had happened. I started to answer but my mom cut in with the story. I smirked a little to myself. People were less likely to doubt the parent. The nurse gave a smile and looked to me, as if to confirm that really was the story. I meet her eyes, and though I still felt exposed, I nodded easily and offered a weak smile. She actually hesitated a moment before going back to sewing up the gash. I know it was sick to think of, but I was kind of disappointed. I hated my scars, yes, but I still had a strange fascination with them, I couldn’t help but thing what a beautiful scar the gash would have turned into. It would still scar, but it was tainted by modern medicine now.

I didn’t actually remember the IV being placed, but I did notice when I felt my skin itch around the thing embedded in my arm. I had the urge to rip it out. I was feeling dizzy still, and it was hard to focus on anything more than what was in my immediate line of vision. The nurse finished, and patted my arm affectionately before leaving. I watched as she stopped to talk to a doctor, the one I had been talking to earlier, they both glanced over at me and looked away, feeling as though they had just seen me naked.

They knew. I laid back on the bed. I was going to die; they knew. I let out a sigh, and closed my eyes. My mother was leaning over, asking if I was okay. I mumbled I was dizzy. Maybe I could just tell her everything now. My mind rejected that idea, quite violently. I felt the beginnings of a headache, just behind my eyelids. Could anxiety cause headaches? What about one’s world crashing down around them?

I was given the blood transfusion, and they brought me some sweets, like the cookies they gave to people who give blood. I didn’t deserve the blood or the cookie. I wanted to scream that people who hack up their own body shouldn’t be rewarded! I was watching that one doctor and the nurse who stitched me up, closely. Any moment they would come in here and rip the IV from my arm, and snatch the sweets from me and scream to everyone about what a freak I was, before throwing me in the back of some van to be carried off to some insinuation, with nice pretty, clean white walls, where I could spend the rest of my sick life, away from all the razor blades.

I could see how I was a little paranoid, but in my mind, I had the right.

The doctor did come back in, and he shut the door of the small room behind him. I jumped in the bed. This was it. He was going to tell my mother I was a freak, he was going to have me locked up with all the other sick freaks of the world, in some place where I could never hurt myself again. I looked up, meeting his eyes, as he sat, calmly on a stool at the foot of my bed.

He asked, calmly about what happened, only after reassuring my mother that I was fine, and that the wound would heal with minimal scaring. I felt as though he was reading my mind and said that just to spite me.

My mom started to answer, but he turned to me, indicating that he wanted to hear it from me. I nodded, happy to oblige him. I had been rehearsing the whole thing in my head since I got into the car. I was ready. I meet his eyes, careful not to look away for too long; that was a sign of lying. I repeated it perfectly. How I was looking for an old comic book, and I had reached up on the shelve, and it had come loose, cutting my arm.

The doctor nodded, but something on his face said he didn’t believe the story. I was convinced he could read my mind. At this point I was convinced that wires in my mind had been crossed somewhere and my thoughts were being broadcast to any who would hear them.

And then he said the words that made my blood run cold. Self Injury. The way he said it was so sinister, so dark. He said it was just that the cut was so neat, and clean, straight, it looked like it could have been a razor blade. I let out a sigh, somehow relieved. At least now I didn’t have to be so nervous, they knew, I was outed. My life as I knew it was over. Okay. At least I didn’t have to worry. I was exposed, so what. It somehow felt better than the anxiety from moments before.

Before I could open my mouth, though I still wasn’t sure if I was going to confirm his suspicions or deny them, my mother cut in. She was appalled at the suggested, saying how I wasn’t depressed, and how I was a happy kid, and how that just wasn’t possible. She didn’t believe him. So my world wasn’t as over as I had thought. I joined my mother in her rant. I did my best to look affronted as I denied the truth. I was never so glad that I could lie so well. It was so easy it was almost sickening. The doctor looked surprised, but I could still see doubt on his face.

He tried again, saying how he was just worried because of the severity of the cut. He said he wasn’t accusing anyone of anything, but that it was just policy. Nothing got through to my mother, and thanks to her ignorance I was able to deny everything easily. Parents make the best allies.

The doctor relented, finally, and apologized, though he did mention something about a psychiatric evaluation and counseling. My mother just glared. I sighed and laid back on the bed, trying to collect myself. Normal, everything was going to go back to normal, I just knew it. I didn’t know if normal was such a good thing, but I figured it was going to have to work. The doctor left and my mother went to find my father, muttering something about getting out of here. I was surprised at how readily she defended me against the doctors allegations, despite the fact that any idiot could see where he was coming from. It hurt, because I knew, that when I was eventually outed as a sick freak, she would probably die of shock. I would have to move out soon, if only to spare my parents. That way, next time I decided to be an idiot and slice open my veins I could die quietly in a corner just like sick freaks like me deserved. I wouldn’t worry anyone. That was what I felt the most guilty over. The worry. I didn’t care about myself enough to have the common sense NOT to slash myself up, so why should anyone waste their worry on me?

It wasn’t too much longer after the conversation with the doctor that I was discharged. The doctor seemed reluctant as we started to leave. I saw him standing off to the side of the sign in desk, watching as my parents signed the needed papers. I don’t know what possessed me; I was so close to freedom, to my world returning to normal. I moved away from my parents and towards the doctor. He seemed surprised. I apologized for my mother’s response, and said how she was just being a mother. He said he understood and he was sorry for the accusations, and that he didn’t think I had really done that to myself, it was just a little suspicious. I said I understood, and thanked him for caring, and doing his job, shock his hand, before rejoining my parents and heading out the door.

I glanced behind me at the doctor. He looked convinced. My calmness, my coolness, my ability to tell a blatant lie without batting an eyelash, that’s probably what did it. I should be smiling, at least to myself, but for some reason I couldn’t. Everything was going back to normal. I was going back home and no one knew my deepest, darkest, bloodiest secret, even though I had basically waved it in front of their faces. At this point I was convinced that I could cut myself right in front of them and they wouldn’t believe it was possible. I could confess loudly, and throw my stash of razors in their face and they would still remain ignorant. Not just my parents either. I could scream it to the world and no one would believe me. I had worked that hard on the lie. I was that good. I had fooled them all. I should be elated at that fact, I was never going to be discovered. I was going to be allowed to slash myself to bits, and no one would ever know. I think that was supposed to make me happy. Instead I felt a feeling of despair creep into my body. I was going to be allowed to slash myself to bits, and no one would know.

I had really fooled them all.