I was in that cold, plain, boring room for what seemed like a year. When I was finally discharged to go back home, I promised myself this, "I will NEVER do that again…" Remember, that was a promise.
The first few days back at school went quickly, but they slowed down as soon as the glares and whispers started. It was getting harder and harder to get up each morning knowing that I had to face everyone's judgment once again. Soon enough it became too much and I started to cut again.
I started off being careful, but as my life at school got worse and worse I didn't care if I cut too deep. At that point, it seemed like the best choice.
The scars. They weren't just on my wrists anymore. They were making their way up my arms. It looked ugly. I looked ugly. The more I told myself this, the more of a reason it became for me to carry on cutting.
It was no longer just at home either. I carried a blade with me around at school and whenever I got the chance, I'd lock myself away and cut and cut until I physically and mentally couldn't continue. I covered them up with the sleeves of my shirt and just hoped that no one would notice.
One day I cut more in one go than I ever had before. This meant there was more blood. I covered the cuts with my sleeves as usual, but there was so much blood that it seeped through the cheap fabric. As I walked past him it dripped. He saw the blood fall to the ground and I seemed to follow it. He caught me before I hit the floor and stared into my eyes. Id never had this feeling before. It was like a burning flame had been ignited inside me as soon as I fell into his arms and felt the warmth of his embrace. It was a burning flame of love.