I was angry that Degrassi Goes Hollywood didn't address Ellie's cutting at ALL, even when she was like breaking down because her dad was sick, so I decided that I guess I'd just have to pick up their slack and write about it myself. :p Like seriously, it's Ellie. She has this whole breakdown and not ONCE do they reference cutting even a little? Ughhh I hate them sometimes…
It's also very short, but considering there's no dialogue dragging it on would have made it suck even more than it may or may not now.
This is also my very first fic in first person… please tell me how I do! Seriously, please be harsh. Flame if you'd like, as long as you explain why.
Disclaimer: Yeaahhh obviously I don't own shit. If I did I wouldn't be as stupid as they are sometimes. And by sometimes I mean a lot of the time.
Warning: Deals with self-injury
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I couldn't stand it. Anything. Any of it. I felt my chest contract as I stormed away from Craig's stupid house where he was with his stupid girlfriend. Just another reminder of how much I suck. How no one would ever want me.
My eyes were glazed, puffy and red, my makeup was running and my hair was a mess. I must have gotten looks as I walked on but the only things that stuck out to me were the sharp objects. The nail sticking out of the street sign. The staples on the flyer. The needles in the sewing store. The glass of the windows.
I had stopped cutting years ago. I had a few slip-ups once in a while, but I know that's normal. Not that I'd ever admit that to anyone; as far as anyone knows I stopped when Sauve helped me through it. I cut when Jesse and Caitlin hooked up. That was the last time and the first time in months.
No words could describe how badly I longed to feel something sharp scrape across my flesh, how desperate I was to watch blood pool at the source. My savior, my control—my life for so long. I couldn't fix my dad. I was helpless. Nothing I could do could make my father forget the people—his friends and fellow soldiers—that died right in front of him.
But cutting would make me even more of a failure. Still, it was taunting me. I needed to feel that pain. I needed something to take away the heaviness in my heart, to lift the burden off my shoulders.
More than anything I needed to feel in control. I didn't feel in control. I've never felt less in control. I couldn't stay at Craig's while he was there with his girlfriend. I couldn't listen to Marco remind me about my father, begging me to visit him.
I couldn't. If I visited it would be real. I'd lose the last strand of control that I had, that I was clinging onto for dear life. If I visited my father I would no longer be able to avoid the sharp objects that stuck out, taunting me, calling me, begging me to dig them into my pale flesh.
My mother hated me. Marco wouldn't stop judging me because I wouldn't visit my father. Paige was too busy being a five-minute A-lister. Craig was too busy with Evette. I had no one. No one to understand, no one to listen. No one to offer support. Just myself. Myself, sharp objects, and my blood.
I felt as though my whole world were crashing down around me. As if the only thing that could save me was the sharp blade of a knife. The slick edge of a razor. The deep crimson liquid bubbling on my skin, reminding me I'm still here, I'm still alive.
As I look up, however, I realized my feet had subconsciously dragged me back to the mansion. Back to Marco—my best friend, my soul mate. And for now, I guess that has to be enough. I can't predict tomorrow, I can't promise I won't end up sliding a blade against my wrist, but for now Marco has to be enough. Because I need to be stronger than that.
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Meehhhhhhhh. Not so happy with us. Please please PLEASE be honest, I've never written in first person before. Please and thank you!