Okay, I honestly have no idea where this came from. It's a bit graphic and emotional. And very short. Anywho... enjoy
:)
A
The warm afternoon sunlight streams through my open window into my small nondescript bedroom. My desk is stationed underneath the window in a desperate attempt to catch as much light as possible. Other than the precisely positioned stationary and an ordinary working lamp my desk is bare. Opposite the desk, against the furthest wall (not that the wall is very far from the window) is my neatly made bed, the covers smoothed out with military precision. Next to the bed on the small night stand, one lonely book, 'How to connect to your peers' lays half forgotten. Guess I won't get to finish it. Can't say that the little I read helped anyway. From my chair in the dark shadowy corner I survey my room critically. The room is devoid of personality. In some ways it's a lot like me. All the pieces you exspect to see are present. But still I can't help feeling that it's all for show. The walls, window and furniture are only pretending to be a bedroom. I'm cold but I don't move from my spot. Not that I would, even if I could. I have spent most of my life surveying others from the shadows. I only recently became part of something more substantial. I wonder if Naruto and Sakura will notice if I don't show up for training tomorrow. Things were probably going well with the new team 7, not that I could really tell anyway. I guess the training growing up really messed with my head. How else would you explain this sick obsession?
Self mutilation...
I wonder if a 'normal' individual can fully grasp the emotions that drive someone to this act.
How do you explain to someone the feeling of standing in a room full of people and still being utterly alone?
How do you describe the emptiness that radiates out of the darkest corners of your soul to fill your every waking moment?
Can someone who has never pressed a blade to their skin understand the sense of control that you gain as the adrenalin runs through your veins?
The anticipation as you press down with a shaking hand... the sting of the blade as it splits your skin... the burning pain as the blade glides through fat and muscle and blood vessels... the cold sweat that breaks out on your body as you briefly glimpse the underlying flesh... the shaky breath you release as your blood spills from the cut to paint your skin crimson... the warmth of the blood that runs down your arm and drives away the cold.
Who would understand if I say it's an affirmation of life, of my existence? Every living thing bleeds... so if I can bleed... it means I'm alive. Right?
Saying it is an addiction will only earn you strange looks.
But, as any self-respecting addict can tell you, nothing beats the first hit.
You end up wanting more
More control
More pain
More blood
And no addict fuels his addiction thinking it will kill him.
It's not about life and death... okay, maybe it's about life, but that's beside the point.
I wonder if the 'normal' individuals will understand if I say this was an accident.
How do you explain to those who love you that you don't really want to die?
How do you describe the finality of darkness that descends as the warmth runs out?
I'm not going to say anything... T_T