Sever
He didn't understand it, his incessant need for the pain, to watch the blood drool down his arm, such a beautiful shade of burgundy. Dark and cursed. Strange how much the cuts burned. They actually burned when he sliced in, like he had set his arm on fire. How peculiar..
It the beginning, he had just been playing at it. Little tiny runs of the blade along his skin, tiny dot of blood bubbling up and then congealing almost instantly. One night, by simple dumb luck, he had cut deeper. He had stared, shocked and horrified at how the skin gaped open. Like a tomato when you cut into it. Looked like something a wild animal might give you, like a wound inflicted by a Hippogriff Claw. The more he cut, the better it felt. This was the real deal. Lifting up out of himself, he realized he could handle living another day. Watching the life force leave him had a calming effect, prevented him from doing anything more serious. Like killing himself when the concept took him. IT was like a bit of a game, how many cuts at once, would he get caught, would he deny it? Looking in the mirror, holding the scarred forearm beside him, he owned that pain, he owned those scars. Shouldn't the world know his pain, shouldn't it be visible ,tangible, acknowledged for he horror that it was?
He'd been a bloody fool this last time, however (literally and figuratively), deciding to push the blade into an old wound, opening it up further and deeper than ever before. The blood had come gushing out, and he had just barely got the cloth to his elbow in time. As it was, it soaked through quickly, and he had managed to smear some on the desk. So much for being discrete. He had cleaned it up as best as possible, hiding the bloodied papers under a pile of garbage. And that cut didn't want to stop bleeding, even two hours later. Hurt to the bone really, churning his stomach, twisting his soul into knots. Even though he had only sliced through to a layer of, was it fat, underneath. It was actually a little hideous, if the truth be known, but here was no way he could ever go to a doctor and have it stitched. Had there not been about 25 other cuts on the arm, he probably would have. Making excuses was not something he was good at, neither was being criticized nor public humiliation. Will it ever heal? He wondered aloud. Will I? Is there salvation in any form? Hope I like long sleeved shirts - I'll be living in them for the rest of my life. Deservingly so. I have no right to get to choose which way my life will go. None whatsoever.. I've made my choices and now I must live with them. And live with my self-inflicted pain.
He didn't understand it, his incessant need for the pain, to watch the blood drool down his arm, such a beautiful shade of burgundy. Dark and cursed. Strange how much the cuts burned. They actually burned when he sliced in, like he had set his arm on fire. How peculiar..
It the beginning, he had just been playing at it. Little tiny runs of the blade along his skin, tiny dot of blood bubbling up and then congealing almost instantly. One night, by simple dumb luck, he had cut deeper. He had stared, shocked and horrified at how the skin gaped open. Like a tomato when you cut into it. Looked like something a wild animal might give you, like a wound inflicted by a Hippogriff Claw. The more he cut, the better it felt. This was the real deal. Lifting up out of himself, he realized he could handle living another day. Watching the life force leave him had a calming effect, prevented him from doing anything more serious. Like killing himself when the concept took him. IT was like a bit of a game, how many cuts at once, would he get caught, would he deny it? Looking in the mirror, holding the scarred forearm beside him, he owned that pain, he owned those scars. Shouldn't the world know his pain, shouldn't it be visible ,tangible, acknowledged for he horror that it was?
He'd been a bloody fool this last time, however (literally and figuratively), deciding to push the blade into an old wound, opening it up further and deeper than ever before. The blood had come gushing out, and he had just barely got the cloth to his elbow in time. As it was, it soaked through quickly, and he had managed to smear some on the desk. So much for being discrete. He had cleaned it up as best as possible, hiding the bloodied papers under a pile of garbage. And that cut didn't want to stop bleeding, even two hours later. Hurt to the bone really, churning his stomach, twisting his soul into knots. Even though he had only sliced through to a layer of, was it fat, underneath. It was actually a little hideous, if the truth be known, but here was no way he could ever go to a doctor and have it stitched. Had there not been about 25 other cuts on the arm, he probably would have. Making excuses was not something he was good at, neither was being criticized nor public humiliation. Will it ever heal? He wondered aloud. Will I? Is there salvation in any form? Hope I like long sleeved shirts - I'll be living in them for the rest of my life. Deservingly so. I have no right to get to choose which way my life will go. None whatsoever.. I've made my choices and now I must live with them. And live with my self-inflicted pain.
