|Me And My Knife
Author: She'sALady-SoTreatHerLikeOne PM
Alone in the bathroom and feeling depressed because I was blamed for killing two of my friends. I don't disagree. It's my fault. Now here I am with my pocket knife. ONE-SHOT!Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama - Words: 557 - Reviews: 2 - Published: 10-26-11 - Status: Complete - id: 2964525
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
The knife is at my feet. Along with a pool of blood. My blood. Why did I do it? Why did I give in to the urge? Because I couldn't handle it. My friend blames me for killing our best friend and his girlfriend; I've lost eight people in the last ten months and I feel responsible. I feel like it's my fault. I feel like I've caused pain and that I should feel what I did to them. Most people cut their arms, but I cut my thighs. It's less noticeable and it's more painful. For me at least.
I get a towel that's hanging behind me and I start wiping the bathroom down. It's not like I'm leaking blood, but I wrote with it. On the walls and on the floor. I just wrote words like 'Sorry' and 'weak' everywhere, because that's what I am. I'm weak. I wasn't strong enough to handle it and I was too stupid to say anything to anyone.
I try to stand up to get the higher spots, but I'm dizzy and I fall on my ass.
Maybe I'll just lay here and wait until I lose too much blood. Maybe that'll be enough. No, for me to die now wouldn't be enough for everyone. Maybe two or three, but not the others. No, I need to suffer like they did. I need to give myself hope and then rip it away. I need to break myself. Mentally and physically.
I grab the towel I was using and I wrap it around a leg. Then I grab another one and do the same thing to the other leg. I lift myself up and I lean against the bathroom door. My breathing is heavy. More tears cascade down my face. I make no attempt to wipe them away.
Why am I so tired? Every breath I take feels like I'm lifting a hundred pounds. Every move I make almost takes my breath away. I feel tired, but I feel no pain.
I try to move my legs, but they don't even twitch. My legs are numb. I go to unwrap a towel to look at my leg, but I decide not to when I feel that the towel is damp with my blood.
I hear a knock on the door. "Hey Dex, I need to use the bathroom. Can you hurry up?" My Dad says through the door.
"I'm sorry, but I think I'll be in here for awhile." I mutter between sobs. My Dad says gets pissy, but he soon leaves me alone.
I try to stand up again and this time I succeed. I'm wobbly, but I can lean against the sink. The towels fall from my legs and land with a weird soggy sound at my feet. I get the last towel we have and I wipe off the rest of the blood. Then I take the towels and I put them in the bathtub. I turn the shower on and I rinse them out.
When I'm done I hang them up and I get in the shower. I can't go to bed covered in blood and not expect anyone to ask me questions.