The Point of No Return
The need to bleed is overwhelming. You have to love the metallic, tangy taste of what leaks out of your veins, warm red glue attaching itself to your mouth like taffy rebelling against tight packaging. Not a gushing action, but a soft, sweet flow of crimson rising from you arm as if it were a volcano erupting in slow motion. Except this isn't the first time this happened. Or the second. Or even the third, fourth, or fifth. No, you're a veteran at this kind of warfare, always locked and ready to go with a staple here, some plastic there, pieces of aluminum pie plates, sharpened pencils, calligraphy nibs, thumbtacks, comp. wires, broken glass, you name it; you've tried it, every goddamn straightedge you can find to do your dirty deeds for you. Anything that will slice into your pale, pathetic skin. Anything that will hurt you. And, above all those stupidly selfish reasons to damage yourself further, you want to get something in your hands that will ultimately destroy you.
Why, though? Why go through such pain and trauma if you don't have to? Wouldn't killing yourself save time, give you a momentary goal to strive for, one last accomplishment to feel proud about before short circuiting under pressure? Really, though, really…wouldn't suicide be saner than carving your body up like a Jack O' Lantern?
You shake your head. Not completely without emotion, but pretty indifferent to the argument. Caring about shit that you've dealt with since you can't remember is asinine. You can't change what happened. No one can. Not like they would want to, but hey, everyone has their own problems to deal with, and that excuses them from showing what little compassion they have for screw-ups who can't be left alone.
Ward rules can be so freaking ridiculous, prohibiting newcomers to eat, shower, or use the bathroom without a staff nurse on call, watching their every move, halting unauthorized vomiting and sharp object hunting in its tracks. A queer smirk pulls your lips up into a long U-shape. The new nurse, Katy Willlinger, the one who was supposed to be monitoring your activity, made a fatal mistake. With her back turned and head craning into the hallway; her stance reminds you of a small girl peering into Mom and Dad's room. Your grin grows wider. Shy sweetie-pies like her never make it in places like these for long. If the careless errors don't get them, their first episode of trying to restrain a violent sociopath does.
Their incompetence is not your concern now. What does put some bounce back into your step is the tiny shiny thing underneath the sink, a wet strip of silver doing its best to hide in the shadow of a nearby trashcan. You hear a sound, the familiar shuffle of the staff's plain white shoes scuffing the floor. A quick glance over an arched shoulder reveals Ms. Willinger's current status. One of her ugly uniform clogs arches out, as if she's planning to pivot to her left. Instinctively, you hold your breath, trapping an aftertaste of a late lunch in your throat. Today's menu included soggy bread with runny eggs. A meal worthy of vomiting, even if you weren't suffering from a food disorder. You can't ask for better at the kitchen, either. That just generates a full supply of laughter from the cook, followed by insulting sarcasm such as "Sure, Your Majesty, would you prefer fresh scampi or fillet mignon?" or "Wait right there, I'll fetch you a menu of our finest pureed puke plates."
Angry at the block chef, fat women in white advising you on proper food etiquette, and generally pissed that you're being held in an asylum where the workers are as fucked up as the patients, you swipe the item from the floor. A shaky hand jams it into your pocket, drops the smooth, cold article into a safe bed of cotton, then jerks itself out just as you hear someone calling you name.
"Seto?"
Knowing exactly who the hushed tone belongs to, you shrug her off, wordlessly studying the tiles beneath the soles of perfectly polished shoes. She'll keep on grilling you until you barf back the desired answer, but you've gotten used to nosy behavior. Around here, the closest this you have to privacy is your dreams. Or so you'd like to think. The truth is that even your deepest, darkest thoughts get exposed, no matter how bizarre or warped they are. Everyone always wants to now what you're thinking, commands you to share your every "feeling", and writes about them in a record you are never allowed to read. The rage grows, heating your insides, bringing your blood to a steady boil. What makes these assholes believe that they have the right to do this to you, to your peers? Hell, why does anyone do it---
Nurse Willinger's voice, a forced calm layered with concern, echoes your name again. "Seto? Seto, dear, are you O.K.?"
This woman is one of the few people here that actually does her best to be friendly. Nice, pleasant staff members are difficult to find these days. For the first time in days, a stab of guilt hits you in the chest, cuts you more than usual. Experiencing emotion, real, true emotion with all of its strengths and weaknesses, confuses you. There's no logic behind what's running through your mind, no particular rhyme or reason to any key point of it, and that's unsettling. Is your imagination acting up again? Can you admit that you're as human as the adult before you, her glasses about to fall off her young, pretty face because she can't read you that well, either? Damn, what's up? What's up with you, you jerk? Just what the hell is so wrong with you that you can't even respond?
Her nervous feet switch positions, seeming to be unsure of whether to stand their ground or rush off and get help. For a moment, it appeared to be the latter, until something totally unprecedented occurs. The same hand, the one that plucked the metal off its stony bed, commits the ultimate treachery. You can't speak. Speech is useless, jumbling words you wish you could say in a throat that wants to be sealed forever. However, in your heart of hearts, you know that talking is the only way to stop the madness, to end the charade, to fucking cease and desist the torturous episodes you put yourself through. But what do you do instead of communicating? What else, besides what you hate to love, what you love to hate:
You cut.
In a single, continuous motion, you do the same action, one after the other, repetitiously hacking into the same scarred spot, the same vein, the same goddamn flesh that screams for leniency, but you never offer it any. As the new girl stares at you in shock, her jaw wide open, her almond-shaped eyes expanded to twice their normal size, you gaze right back at her, your features reflecting the exact opposite of surprise. What's there to be so freaked out about? Doesn't everyone in life have different coping mechanisms to make stress easier to handle for them? Or are you so wasted, so completely drained of happiness and good feelings that you are balancing on the edge of a cliff, looking at the jagged rocks below, wondering if you've hit the point of no return?