Disclaimer: The character that this story is based on does not belong to me. It belongs to J.k Rowling.
Warning: This fic contains attempted suicide. Self-Infliction.
Hurting too Much
It hurt, oh god it hurt so bad. Dragging the innocent scissors along my skin. Looking at them I see that they were the ones I used in grade 5, and they were a beautiful shade of blue, my favourite actually. That is most likely the reason why my mother bought them for me.
Again I scrape them against my skin.
"Oh my god, fuck!"
I stare at it. The evidence of it right there on my left wrist. It isn't enough, because there is no blood. None at all. Do I have the courage to make myself hurt like others make me hurt?
Jeezus, it's so pink, rosy and then it's white where the line is.
I think I'll try again.
This would be so much easier with a knife. But it would be so much more painful. I can't stand pain. It hurts and I hate feeling. But again, I must… try.
Have you ever tried carving into your skin with something sharp, on purpose?
Maybe this is my cry for help. Like in that story; There they are on my arm, four scars. People who've seen them ask what they are. I tell them my cat scratched me, but what they don't know is- I don't have a cat. I just don't want anyone to know the truth.
More skin has come up.
I haven't asked for help enough have I? Nobody knows how I feel. They don't know what happened. How could they? How do they know what's happening now?
There is a war going on and I am not important enough to be noticed or seen.
"I thought you were smart," they say.
Yeah right.
I can't do it. I don't have the guts and it hurts so bad… next time, next time I might try pills.
Have you ever read aimee? I almost never did, but a friend lent it too me before I left for school after the holidays.
Nobody sees the real me. I'm someone else entirely. A bookworm. Yeah uh huh whatever. It's your fault, when I look at you I see reasons why fantasy is better.
What's it to you?
All you care about is winning the damn war, and here I am drowning in it.
Drowning… Hmmm. The possibilities.
I guess right now all I am is bushy brown hair and a book, right?
I can't do it anymore it hurts too bad, enough punishment for now. I've done enough damage.
It makes me sick all that weakness. The pain, the pleasure…
And then the next morning I look back and see. It's nothing, just a scrape. All that pain and… nothing.
It's all that I see.
And I hate myself.
It's all that I feel.
And I hate myself.
It's all that I am.
And I hate you.
(A/N)I'm sorry if this was totally depressing for you, I guess I wrote it at a time when I was down, maybe I listened to a sorrowful sng and felt moved to right this, perhaps i had a huge row with my mother. I have no idea where it came from but all those who felt touched by this...thanks.
