This is a story I wrote for an English class assignment. We had to write a five page (minimum) story, and since I wrote it, I figured I might as well post it on this site. I hope you like it. Please read and review! Thanks.

Warnings: Self-injury. This story involves cutting. Please don't read if this really bothers you.

Complete and Utter Lies

"Devyn," a chilling voice filled the cold, damp air. The voice was distinctly familiar, though Devyn himself couldn't place it. The area surrounding him was pitch black and cramped, and his back felt very stiff. It was as if he had fallen asleep in a chair for too long.

His hands reached out, though he couldn't see them, and he felt around blindly for a light switch. Instead his fingers ran across the once familiar feel of the gear shift in his old car, and suddenly there was a bright, burst of light, blinding him and illuminating the whole car. He squinted in the painful glare, eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to adjust to the unexpected change.

A horn blared to his right, and as he turned to lean his body across the seat in order to flip whatever jerk had been honking at him off, he noticed there was another person in the passenger seat.

"H-how?" he felt his mouth drop in awe as he saw his 'little' sister there, in seemingly perfect condition, without a single scrape or bruise. Her dirty blonde hair that framed her perfect, pale face and her large, chocolate eyes that stared up at him blankly. An eerie smile spread across her face, revealing her little dimples.

"It's all your fault, Devyn," she whispered again. The voice was definitely hers, clear and without a doubt in Devyn's mind. He should have known it from the very second it had sounded in the night air.

"I'd still be here if it wasn't for you." The same creepy smile remained on her face, the corners of her upper mouth twitching.

"Sam?" he reached toward her desperately, tears filling his own blue eyes. "I know, I know," he sobbed over and over. But it still wasn't good enough.

Still the large, white truck came crashing through her window. He watched helplessly as her head slammed painfully against the glass, causing a trail of blood to flow freely. He cringed as he heard the bone in her fragile arm snap brutally. Then, finally, all the air would come rasping out of her throat, creating a horrible shriek. The last noise she would ever make…

Devyn bolted up in bed, a scream of his own trying to itch its way out of his airways. As always he clasped his hand over his mouth just in time to muffle it. Waking his parents, especially his mother, would be a very bad idea. He wouldn't be able to take the hate in her eyes right now. They were too similar to his sisters, those chocolate-brown eyes. Only his mothers were now filled with a hatred for her only son and desperation to have her daughter back. Sam's eyes could never look like that.

It was his fault. She wouldn't be coming back, so of course they couldn't. She only appeared in his dreams, or, rather, his nightmares. He'd been having them since it happened, last October, and that wouldn't change. He stopped expecting it to, so instead he had taken to becoming smitten with a razor.

Maybe if he bled enough she would be happy. She wouldn't haunt him, wouldn't tell him it was all his fault, even though it was. He deserved it, he had murdered her. But, maybe, if he gave himself enough pain they would be even. It didn't work like that, somewhere he knew this, but it wouldn't stop him from trying.

Throwing the sweat drenched sheets off himself he stood, feet planted firmly on the cold, hard-wood floor. He made his way to the bathroom in the dark. Devyn had made this trip so many times since he figured it out; he didn't need a light to know exactly where to step to avoid the creaky floor-boards.

It had been two weeks since the last time he had that version of the dream. Tonight's dream had ended with an exact replay of that crisp, autumn night; the crash, the blood, the cracking of Sam's bones, her last scream. It wasn't always like that, though. Sometimes their roles were reversed and he was the passenger. Sometimes she would yell at him, question him for what seemed like hours about how he could kill his baby sister. And sometimes, on a rare occasion, she would live. Those were always the scariest, most horrible ones.

They would build him up, give him hope, everything he wanted, but in the end he would wake up and it was all torn out from under him. He would arise and find that everything was still exactly the same as when he had fallen asleep. His sister was still dead, his mother stilled despised him, and worst of all, he still despised himself.

He didn't know why he'd lived, and not his sister. In fact, that's how he knew for sure there wasn't a God. God would have taken him instead and left Sam be. No one would miss him half as much as he missed Sam. She was the honor student, the good one. She was the kind that did volunteer work on all of her free weekends. And just what had he done? Devyn had been too busy cutting class with his 'friends', to get anything accomplished in his life. He was sure that his mom's eyes wouldn't look like that if he had been the one who died.

Devyn opened the bathroom closet, swearing under his breath as he lifted the bottom of the box that he used to store his bathroom necessities. All of his blades were gone, probably thrown out by his father.

When he had first started the cutting he had been careless about it. Doing places as obvious as his wrists, buying the razors from hardware stores and leaving them out on the counter. It had only been a matter of time before someone noticed. When they did he was sent to therapy, where he was diagnosed with a bunch of big words he was sure they didn't even understand themselves, and some fancy acronyms. Like P.T.S.D.

They took his escape, and told him that he didn't have a debt of any kind to pay off, that he was just lucky. But, from the look in his mother's eyes, he could tell she didn't agree. Devyn had gotten his second chance to live, unlike sweet Sam whose life had fallen out from under her, and here he was mucking it up. He didn't deserve to live and Devyn knew she was hopeful that one day he'd make a stupid mistake and cut too deep in some vital place. Then she wouldn't have to see Sam's murderer in him every day of their lives.

That was why the body checks were never really thorough. It wasn't that she had faith in him that he'd stop; it was that didn't really want him to stop at all. He wasn't sure why his father didn't do them well either. He had no hope that Devyn would stop, he knew just exactly how stubborn his son was. However, there was no anger towards himself that Devyn could detect. There was only a tiredness that came from fighting with his mother for too long, always having to stand up for Devyn, demanding that Alexandria cooperate and realize just how lucky they were that one of their children had survived the horrible accident. But, still he could escape his father's notice and he had no plan to redirect any attention on himself. So he had gotten crafty over the past year.

He stared at the shelf below his own, where all of Sam's toiletries sat in disuse. Nothing had been cleaned since the energetic, fourteen-year-old had died. Not even the empty bottle of shampoo had been thrown out, and it sat in its place, quietly collecting dust. Contemplating for a moment, Devyn reached into the basket that held all of Sam's girly-smelling soaps, shaving cream, and his prize; her shaving razors.

He pulled the pink razor apart bit by bit, first removing the pesky plastic film at the top that held the blades in. It was tricky, and Devyn had to work it for a few minutes. The problem had lied in the very good quality of the pink razors. If you got a really bad quality razor the blades were too dull, but if you got one that was too good it was a lot harder to remove the film. You needed the perfect cheap but not too cheap one. Eventually it came apart and the three blades tinkered to the tile floor one by one.

Retrieving them quickly, he rinsed one of them hastily with some rubbing alcohol to sanitize it. Then he pulled off his black pajama pants. It was the only color he bothered with these days, it was perfect for his situation after all; a symbol of both death and sorrow. Silently it fit into his morbid personality.

Inching his boxers down he gauged the amount of space he had. He wouldn't cut to close to where the elastic would snap, just in case they were sagging to low and revealed his secret or someone saw them when he was removing his jeans to change for gym. He also couldn't cut too far down or when they were pulled up it would be visible.

This left him with a chunk of space that had maybe two and a half inches of 'safe' skin for him to hack at. Old, white scars and the angry, red, new ones stared out at him from this area. Devyn brought the smallest of the blades down, tilting it so it would slice neatly through his skin to form a perfect line. Again and again he repeated this process, raking the razor down his thigh to create more cuts. He watched as the blood crept out slowly at first before starting to pour out like a faucet of crimson. Entranced he would stand there and just watch till there was virtually no flow.

Finally looking up from his leg he stared into the mirror. His face reflected back to him, still the same old black hair, icy blue eyes, full lips. They were all still there, still the same old features he'd always had. But he didn't feel the same he always had. The old Devyn would have never touched new Devyn's self-injury problems with a ten-foot pole. He would be sleeping right now, his homework left undone without a care. He would get up and go to school tomorrow, and be happy to see all his friends. The old Devyn would hit on Vanessa, the pretty brunette from his Tech Fluency class. Maybe he would ask her out. Though this new, foreign Devyn had the same exact features as the old care-free Devyn they were two different people entirely, and he wasn't sure if that was a bad thing or not.

Grabbing some cotton balls and some antiseptic he began the long process of cleaning his leg, wincing as this reopened some of the newer and older wounds. By the time his leg was disinfect he had three cotton balls completely covered in blood in his hands. Devyn threw them into the toilet closing the lid and flushing it to muffle the sound and send his secrets down the drain.

He pulled his black sweatpants back on, firmly tucking the fresh injuries under his waistband. They would start to scab over by tomorrow and when he was sitting in his shrinks office he was sure he'd have to deny himself the urge to scratch at them, while he repeated the doctors words, in the monotonous voice he always used when he was there;

"It was not my fault."

Even though he knew it was a complete and utter lie…


I hope you guys liked this story, please review and tell me any thoughts you may have on it. I might turn this into a multi-chapter story if you guys like it so you should give me your opinion. Also if you'd like to see more you should tell me some ideas and I'll see if they mesh with mine. I might also create a story that could be linked to this but you doesn't have to be read with this. Like a companion. Depends on if the idea's I have mesh with what the readers give me. Give me your take.

(P.S: If you've read any of my other stories and you're wondering 'Why the hell hasn't she updated?!' it was partly because of this project but also I've been going to a new therapist and it's been taking up a lot of the time I usually save for writing. Thanks for reading this.)

REVIEW!!!!! (It makes me all warm and tingly inside, lol)