Author: TaleOfABeaver PM
A cut can be the difference between individuality and invisibility. It can make a person feel good,or it can destroy them inside out. It can be the only means of escape, the only possibility to be free. A cut won't go away, it will just stay there, forever slowly changing from red to grey-dead. A cut can bring a new meaning of life or it can take life away altogether. Review pleaseRated: Fiction K+ - English - Hurt/Comfort - Words: 1,289 - Published: 01-29-13 - Status: Complete - id: 3096534
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Every day is so wonderful, then suddenly it's hard to breathe. The air is dry and my voice is rough. I looked up and the sky was grey, I felt dull and began to fade away. All the people, they all walk away, and leave me to what I will do. I find comfort from all the cuts as they bleed, I lose myself in them, my maddened, crazy dreams. Swirls of red rinse round the plughole, and then it is- still there! How? The colour, watered, like my eyes, drying on the porcelain panels pasted above the bath. Red. Why won't it stop? The blood it continues to rush, and my head, light falls deeply in to confusion and near unconsciousness, I feel it is over, is it?
The door is locked, bolted shut. No footsteps make there way to check upon my lonely self, none ever did. I never wanted the footsteps to come though, I could imagine the endless lectures, and the doctors and psychiatrists, that's why I locked myself away. I normally sat in my room, with the curtains drawn so dark, gloomy shadows stood like giants above me but I liked that, I would sit on the torn, crimson-stained grey/black carpet, and feel the sharpness of the side of my prized razor as it tore the practice cut in my index finger. I loved that feeling the first cut, just a small slice on the wrinkles of my fingerprint just enough so that a trickle of blood will entice itself around the tip of my finger and ridge under the cut back down to the base. Sometimes I like to taste the first blood that dribbles from within me, but it is sweet in a manor so sickly it brings me to tears, not of pain, but of evanescent happiness.
I sit in the pool of my body's life's work, thinking about how long it took to make the blood compared to how long it took for it to pour from me, and swaddle around my feet. The blood was cold now, but I could remember how warm it had been, when the razor swiftly opened up my vein so the blood could escape. It never hurt, ever, I did it for release, freedom and to generally comfort myself. I had been ignored or hated by the world so far, and this made me feel new, to get rid of the old blood meant I could make new blood and I thought that new blood would change me and make me new as well, I fooled myself to think this for so long but I knew it wasn't true and it would never happen, but it never stopped me from cutting.
I still cut, just not as much, mainly because they are always watching me, every move I make, every step I take, they'll be watching me so I don't get a free moment where I can escape to feel that all-to-welcome feeling of the cold, sharpened blade sink in and glide through my arms, legs and any where else I feel necessary. I long for a minute where I can hold the razor and squeeze it tight in my hand, I can almost feel the blood ooze from me, and it feels good, it feels right. She came in and ripped the curtains from there rail, took the locks from all the doors, pulled up my memory-soaked carpet and left me naked and exposed on the bare floor, light blinded me, I felt like the whole world was looking at me as I stood semi-nude in the middle of a market square with nothing to cover my patchwork skin and they stood and they laughed and they pointed, and... And... And I couldn't help it my head imploded on itself and everything collapsed, I lurched my weakened arms up to my skull and grasped it viciously as the pain heightened, everything swirled and pulsed around me, the walls melted in to slush and I was powerless to stop it. I screamed. My hands fell to floor and slapped the surface turning them red, blood, I felt safer, I needed to cut, it was all I could think. I frantically patted around the floor, there had to be something- anything! My finger flinched as something impaled it, I jerked my arm up toward my face and saw a rusty screw, I scratched at the floor with it, sharpening the point. Holding it up to my eye I let out a breath of relief and stabbed the screw through my wrist and pulled it through my flesh, the cut was the biggest I had ever had and the trail of blood seemed endless, it fell through gaps in the floor, down in to the banisters and carried on down in to the room below. I lay flat on my stomach letting the blood continue to trickle, keeping up a steady pace, not stopping, continuing to pour out, it rose up against my waist.
I knew this was the end and I had never felt so happy. It's true what they say, your life really does flash before your eyes as you die. I saw everything I had never took the time to see before but not of it was as good as this, right now, none of it was perfect. I saw the first cut and the utter release it gave me, it felt almost orgasmic, the sudden rush of nothingness, it was pain, excitement and fear, and I loved it. I saw every other cut in order and everything that had brought me to each and every one of them, and then I saw the first time she walked in and saw me sat there in the pool of red, that memory seemed to last the longest. I saw, smelt, felt, heard, and tasted everything, the sickly, sweetness of the first drop of blood, the rich, juicy smell of the flesh opening up and releasing the blood, the fists pelting off of the flimsy, wooden frame of the door, and then her voice screaming at a pitch I thought impossibly high, the feeling of the dip in my arm as I ran my finger along it, the almost salty smell, but mixed in with that steamed up smell you get when a hot bath has steamed up the room, everything was so visible and real like I was back there again and then the door flew from its hinges and fell on me knocking me unconscious. Then I saw myself wake up in some strange place I had never been before, then he came in, clipboard in hand and those little metal things to listen to heartbeats hung around his neck, and his voice was low and boring- just as you would expect for a someone like him. Every word from his mouth seemed to drone on for eternity and yet I didn't hear a single one of them.
Back in the real world I felt cold and numb, I imagined this was how the blood felt as it drained from my veins and turned cold in the cracks between the floor tiles, and as I lay in my own, cold blood I smiled for the first time in forever. My nerves began to sag and my bones grew heavy and deathly, but still I smiled and the smile became a grin and in my last ounce of energy I released a single black tear cascading down my blood-blotched cheek and in to the liquid, and my head dropped hitting the floor and I was gone.