Disclaimer: I do not own anything of the Walking Dead series (both comic book and television), and I do not claim to own any of these characters other than my own original character. This is a story I have written and I am in no way, shape, or form making any sort of profit from it. I am poor. I might even be more so now having written this.

This is very much so trigger warning.

Please, if you are fighting with urges to self harm, do not read this.

Reminder

I needed something to bring me back. I needed something to pull me through this… fog. It wasn't planned—at least, that's what I would have said if someone followed me. If someone had watched it all happened, I would have denied it all.

It wasn't like I was proud of it—'cause I wasn't. It ain't like it's something I thought was beautiful or meaningful. I just… I needed it and I knew exactly what I was doing the moment I lit that stupid cigarette. The red glow of the cherry, that was my light; my skin… well, that was the tunnel. That was the guiding hand that would pull me through this numbing smokescreen.

I learnt it on my own. I couldn't blame Merle for it 'cause he was gone before I even tried it, dad was too drunk to tie his shoes most of the time, and mom… the most I remember from that woman was the stench of smoke on her breath when she kissed me before bed. It was something I learnt by myself. It was mine. I take the fault for that; ain't nobody else can.

I take a final puff on my smoke and look down at my wrist. My eyes wander the familiar skin. There was a time in my life where my arm had looked more like a minefield of craters; flesh that bubbled only to be picked at even when it fought to heal. Some of the craters still kept their scars—only a trained eye could peg 'em, but they were there. Reminders.

It wasn't always cigarettes; I only used 'em because they were a quick go-to. It wasn't hard for a kid to pocket a few when the owner of 'em was too drunk to even spell his name. Once, when dad got paranoid and started hidin' his smokes, I used my lighter. That left a gnarly scar on my shoulder; raised and red. I hated it.

Sometimes, I'd use matches; it was a sick joke between me and myself. Only I knew how a match could burn twice. If I had the time, I'd put a butter knife on the element of the stove and just wait for it to redden. It was almost exciting to watch it brighten and then… almost anticipate pressing it onto my skin. But more times than not, it was the cherry of a cigarette to deal the damage. It was my chosen poison; my sure-fire.

It ain't like I wanted the pain—it was never about the pain. It was like once the heat hit my skin, the clouds that fogged me just cleared. The pain was just there as a reminder. It represented life—that whatever made me feel numb wasn't permanent; I could still feel if I wanted to. The pain kind of replaced the emotions I didn't want and didn't know how to show. It made the pain in me disappear—even if it was only for a li'l bit.

When I was younger, I read somewhere or heard from someone that back in the day doctors used to do this thing… bloodletting; I think that's what it was called. When a person was sick, the doc would cut the patient and bleed 'em out like a stuck pig. They believed that by bleeding, it would get rid of all the bad stuff in the body. I guess, in a way, I justified my burning just the same; it was to get all the bad stuff out—to get rid of the deceased part of me.

I take a deep breath and without hesitation, I lower the burning tip to my wrist. I watch carefully as the skin below reddens and whitens with the heat. I didn't hiss—it wasn't pain. It was calm; not pleasant, but not unpleasant. That's just how it was.

When I lift the cigarette, I drop it on the ground. No sense in smoking tobacco with human flesh on it. Ain't nothing good could come from that.

This was why I did it—this was what I craved; the sudden rush of it all. I knew it was sick—as if I was trying to give a visual representation of what sat just below my skin and ate away at me. It was this moment that there was finally release. The pain that choked me on the inside; it would finally go away.

As I looked down at my wrist, it hit me like a ton of bricks. We were starving; we were dying—I couldn't do anything about it. I had no control over it. I had no control the moment before I lit the smoke and I still didn't have control after the surface burn.

I feel my lip quiver as I look down at myself.

I was broken. All the shit that happened to us—waiting for those cannibals to slit my throat at Terminus, waiting for the walkers to get us in our sleep, watching a baby cry for food we just didn't have—it was enough to snap a tree like a toothpick. But I had to stay strong. I needed to be strong.

I needed strength when I saw Merle feasting on a corpse, but I wasn't granted that. I needed strength when Carol stood before me—but Lord knows I didn't deserve it.

I needed strength for Beth.

But I didn't have it.

More than anything, I wish I had that.

I wipe at my face as I let out a silent cry.

Dad once told me crying was for girls. He'd tell me to man up if I scraped my knee or cut my finger and started crying. It was easier to stuff those tears down than these ones. Physical pain you can numb out—block it mentally… but pain on the inside—pain where you can't see the infliction… that was the tough one. There was no blocking it… no shovin' it down and standing back up. All you could do was let it eat at you until there was nothing let.

Well… I had nothing left.

As a person who has suffered with self harm, I have to say that the episode, "Them," left a mark on me, so to speak.

However brief the scene was, I felt like this was one of the only times I had ever seen self harm being portrayed as something I recognized.

It's not about some angry teenager running into a bathroom slashing at their arms to get back at a parent.

It's a very personal thing. It's done in the shadows and, truthfully, there is no theatrics, no build up, no climax; just simply a moment before and a moment after. It's not beautiful and it most certainly is not something to be romanticized.

I don't know if it was just how the cameras worked or if it was Norman Reedus' acting, but it felt very... 'real'.

Sitting and watching a fictional character go through that just tore at me. I was fighting back tears because I questioning why he was doing it when the reality was question why I did it.

I knew where it was coming from. I think anyone who has done such a thing to themselves understands where it comes from.

I just thought that this was a moment in the series that was actually quite grossly overlooked. It was such an honest and powerful moment, or to me it was.

Alright, I'll stop with my monologue, but before I do, I'd like to say something.

If you,

Yes,

You,

Are feeling like hurting yourself, be it burning, cutting, or even hitting a wall (yes, that is considered a form of self harm), please, just send me a message. I know what you're going through might not be what I went through, but talking can help. Believe me. It took me nearly ten years to realize that. If you're in a dark place, don't think twice as to bringing me down there with you. If you think I'll be afraid, fret not; I like the dark, it's what makes the light seem so bright.

No matter the time, the day, or year, I will answer back. You're not alone.

As always, reviews are much welcomed and always appreciated!

~MsBBSue