Red. That's the only thought running through my mind as I watch the crimson color trickle out of wrist.
Blood.
It should hurt. It would hurt someone normal, but my body has adapted to the feeling.
Pain.
I raise the razor in my hand and press it against the middle of my forearm, just above the other cut. Applying slight presser and slowly dragging it over my skin more red bubbles to the surface and puddle around the cut. It's not that deep. It will heal in a couple of days.
Frustration.
I make more cuts up and down my arm, each one going deeper and bringing more blood, desperate for pain. Tears stream from my eyes as the cuts get deeper them I've done before. I have to clench my jaw to keep from screaming.
Bliss.
I smile through the tears and throbbing in my arm. It hurts, but it feels so good. All the bad from the past few weeks wash away with my blood. For a few minutes, I'm completely oblivious to the world.
Reputation.
People wouldn't understand if I talk to them about my problems. They hear about me and accomplishments and see me as the rest of the world does. To them I'm a teenage boy with no problems and all anyone could ever ask for. How wrong could they be?
Punishment.
All the times I do something wrong: burn the food, mess up on a painting, lose a bey battle, every time I am punished. My father cannot stand imperfection, which I am nothing but. It's the reason he got rid of my birth mother, my twin sister, my younger sister; they were all imperfect.
The physical pain is nowhere near the emotional pain that comes with the punishments, depending on if my father or step mother is giving it. The punches, kicks, slaps, lashes of whips are all things I've grow to regard as normal in my everyday life. The hate and disgust in my father's eyes are all I know. If he were to ever show true love and caring I wouldn't know what to do. Sadly, the only thing he cares about is the Polanski image.
Memories.
All the times when I was younger, me and my twin sister, siting in the dining room learning. We learned how to act in public and how to speak properly. Every lesson ended with a beating.
All the nights I would try to sleep but were unable because of the cries and pleas coming from my parent's room. I'm not stupid; I could hear perfectly clear. I know what my father was forcing my mother to do.
At age 7 I walked into my sisters' room to find my father sexually abusing them. I ran up to him and begged him to stop, but I only received a punch that knocked me out cold.
Waving goodbye to my mother and siblings a few days later is one of the only things in my past that holds a pain I've yet to experience again. I cried and begged my mother to take me. Her only response was to glare coldly and slap me. 'Crying is weak.' was the only thing she said before leaving, no 'I love you' or 'I'llmiss you'. That night my father punished me for the crying, it wasn't a usual punishment, it hurt much worse than the others. He calls it his "expression of love". I call it his way of getting sick and twisted pleasure.
Present.
My friends do not know. No one knows. All the pain and punishments in the Polanski mansion are kept secret. The beatings are more regularly, whether I do something wrong or not, and the "expressions of love" happen almost nightly. That's the main reason I like it better at Robert's. For a short amount of time I can run away from the pain and pretend I'm the happy soul everyone makes me out to be. Unfortunately, no one can run away forever.
Identity.
The "me" the world knows is not the real me. At least I don't think it is. I've lived my father's dream for a "perfect family" for so long I no longer know who I really am. I hate painting and cooking and going to balls. I'd much rather spend time at home. I love loud music and rap and pop and all types of others; I would be beaten though if my father knew of this. I've had to keep the real me hidden for so long I can no longer see where my personality begins and my father's wishes end.
Wanting.
All I want is to die, for my blood to drain from my body slowly so I can savor my last moments in life. I can't though. I've come close to it before but I could never go through with it. No matter how bad I want it something keeps holding me back. Maybe it's my friends or maybe it's just the world wanting me to suffer. I have no idea.
"Hey Oliver, you almost done it there?" A voice sounds from the other side of the door.
"Ummm.. Yes. Just one moment please." I call back while getting off the bathroom floor. Moving to the sink and cleaning off my wounds I see at least 15 more cuts, some small and some big, on my forearm. I hadn't realized my hand was working automatically while I was lost in thought.
I quickly grab some gauze, wrap it around my cuts, pull down my shirt sleeve, put my now clean razor in my pants pocket, and clean up the small puddles of blood of the floor. Taking one last look in the mirror to make sure I'm presentable I take a deep breath and reach for the door handle.
"Wow Oli, what took you so long?" Enrique asks me as I step out of the bathroom.
"Probably going ga ga over himself. Now can we please get on with training?" Johnny inputs.
"Yes, I think that would be a wonderful idea Jonathan." Robert says and starts to lead us down a hall.
They all begin to talk about upcoming tournament and all that goes along with it. I self-consciously tug my sleeve down more.
Friends.
Sometimes I wish they could see just how broken I am. But they wouldn't be able to help me. None of them know how to deal with these kinds of problems. They would just pity me, and that is something I do not want.
"Common Oliver, you and me, beyblade." Enrique says while running to the dish.
I smile and shake my head at his antics. Pulling out Unicolyon, I run to the dish after him.
Regrets.
My only regret in life so far is being born a Polanski.