The screaming was coming from downstairs. The whitewashed walls surrounding me seemed to vibrate with the power of their shouts.
"It's your fault that she's so messed up!Your fault that she's so sad!"
"What the hell are you talking about? You have NO right to say that to me! Don't you give a fuck about me?"
"What about ME!? Bitch!"
What about Dex and I?
I just blocked them out and closed my eyes. No point listening to them because they never said all that much anyways. I wondered if they actually didn't realize that Dex and I could hear them.
I winder who they meant. 'she's so messed up'. Honestly- how many people could they really be referring to?
Didn't they realize how much that hurt? It hurt almost as much as the time my best friend saw my mutilated arm and shrieked "You freak!" in my face.
That sucked too.
Or maybe when she told two of her friends, who told their friends, who told pretty much everyone else.
But you know- shit happens. Right?
I opened my eyes slowly and scanned the room around me.
My walls were too white. My whole house was- so I covered my room with papers and posters and writing and any other shit that stuck. Along my wall were two large book-shelves filled with books. My lap top was sitting on my dresser. my dresser held all of my monochromatic clothes that my mother hated. Almost all black.
My mother didn't like how much black I wore. She didn't want people to get the wrong impression when they saw me wearing it.
"People are going to think that you worship Satan or something." She would say, combing a long-fingered hand through her blonde hi-lighted hair.
I didn't. I was used to think I loved god. I'm not so sure anymore.
It didn't' help that a lot of people at my church hated gay people. The fact that God or Jesus would lead them to think that it was wrong, in any way, hurt me.
I was lesbian.
Not that it really mattered, no one liked me either way. Girl or boy, I would always be single.
I had about three friends, if you didn't count the one who told people about my cutting, which personally I didn't.
"Why do you think she wears all that black? Probably because she wants you to notice her!" my mom continued, screaming at my dad.
Actually, no. Not really. I kind of wanted my parents to fuck off. But I don't think my mom would like that answer.
I loved how my mom could be such a hypocrit sometimes. But aren't all adults? And kids too.
They tell you when you're young to be yourself. Not to care what anyone else thinks.
But that's only until you actually be yourself, and that someone isn't someone they want you to be.
Then you have to change in order to fit in.
"People will judge you honey." They always will mom. "You don't want everyone to think you're a freak do you?"
I bit too late for that.
The screaming kept going. It gave me an excuse- justification for what I was about to do. But really, if it hadn't been them- I would've founds a reason. I'm sick. I stormed out of my room and slammed the bathroom door shut behind me.
I dug around in the bottom shelf under the sink, and ran my hand along the edge of the drawer, under some washcloths and pulled out a small black bag.
I undid the clasp and took out an Exacto knife.
It was my favorite thing to cut with. Along with regular blades and glass (which was sort of dangerous- but sickeningly... beautifully painful). Exacto knives cut in a perfectly straight line, cutting just deep enough to feel the relief, but not too deep.
Not by my standards.
I cut slowly. I liked how I cringed at the pain. I loved the blood. Color, smell, the feeling of it smeared across my arms. Cutting washes out bad things. Bad thoughts and feelings and voices. It felt bad. It HURT. But I liked hurting. I guess in a way- it's what I was used to.
My arm was a crisscrossed puzzle. Dozens of shades of fading white- bubbly pink- and festering red wounds. Open and gaping. Spitting blood.
Once I was done being pathetic, I mopped up the blood, bandaged my god damned arm, and yanked my sleeve up.
I wondered what my friends would say tomorrow. They almost definitely had heard by now. About me- and how sick/screwed up/fucked up/psychotic I was. School in the morning would be a blast.
Authors Note: Well hello. First off, I would like to thank anyone willing to read this. It is going to continue and be an actual story, if any of you care to read it.
I'll try to update it... But I might not. Yeah. I'm not good at managing things. Especially stress.
Just so that I don't have anyone asking, I do cut myself and this isn't totally fictional. People on my old account kept asking me. So I thought I'd just say. Also- this isn't completely non-fictional either. Some things have been tweaked. But... Well yeah... [awkward me will shut up now]
Um, so PM me anytime if you wanna. Can't promise I'll gave anything intelligent to say- but I'll listen anytime:P