Pain. A feeling we all feel. But how much pain can we take till we just snap? Physically or physiologically. Pain.
My name is Maka, I'm not your average kid, I'm far from average.
I was once normal, but my world just hit a rock one day and turned from a smooth car ride to a endless roller coaster with loops and drops at any time. It all began on a Saturday, I remember that day so vividly, I remember walking home to see Papa crying on a couch, "Ma- Mama's gone."
Those two words shattered and destroyed my life. My first thoughts were, "Is she dead? Where is she?" My father didn't say anything in reply to this but wrap me into a huge hug, I just knew that he'll answer my questions some other time. Unfortunately, I soon learned that these questions can and will never be answered. Apparently though, my mother just up and left one day, and poof, she was gone, my mother was gone.
It was funny just how fast your life could change. One moment you could be laughing at life and the next you could be staring tragedy in the eye. (Reference from Hatchet by Gary Paulsen anyone?)
I soon began devoting more and more time to my studies, I guess my mind told me my mother was disappointed in me, she wanted more from me, that I would need to study harder. I guess my idiot of a brain back than just wanted, no, needed something to blame the fact my mother left on, and that was the only thing it could think of.
This habit of study really got to my health and I began getting three or less hours of sleep just so I could study, I began growing less and less aware and far more tired, and as this being a very cliche story, I began being bullied.
Those bullies often led to me crying, which, ironically, led to more bullying. They hurt me physically and physiologically to the point of mental break downs, I just couldn't take it anymore, I wouldn't take it anymore. One faithful day when I walked home my father, as usual, was drunk and sleeping right next to another woman on the couch, both unconscious.
It was disgusting yet it happens almost every day, today though, I was different, I felt different. I felt something inside me snap that day, I felt no emotion and the tears no longer found it's way down my cheeks and chin, I only felt nothing but a burning feeling inside.
That feeling led me upstairs where I grabbed my knife and began cutting. Cutting, cutting, and cutting. The cutting made me feel... Different. As if I had control and was powerful. The feeling... Made me feel happy.
I should have known this happiness would not last as one day a blue-haired kid at our school saw my wrist filled with endless scars, some quite fresh, under my long sleeve shirt, and the kid, being annoying as hell, told the teacher, probably hoping for me to get in trouble.
In the end, the teacher just silently dismissed the kid and called my dad who was probably drunk at the time because he came in both late and angry. The teacher and my father had a long chat and the teacher suggested for me to either go to therapy every two days every week or just go live in a mental hospital place.
My father, being lazy as hell, makes me choose and when I choose therapy he tells me that a mental hospital is the better choice. Yeah, and now here I am, in front of the crappiest most worn down nut house I have ever seen (and the only one I've ever seen) and me regretting every step I take towards it.