There goes that darn faucet again. Maybe I'll fix it one day, since I'm always locked in my bathroom, fixing up the new wounds my father gives me. Although, the last couple of times have also had a different reason behind them. I still went in there to clean the cuts, but then, in the middle of it, this weird feeling took over. I had wondered, 'what would it be like to end it all? What if I could end the pain, never be hurt by anything again?' I pulled out the knife in my back pocket, flipping out the blade, when I realized what I was about to do. Shoving the thought to the side, I closed my blade and finished what I was previously doing, then I left my house, going to the Curtis' place. Their home always makes me feel better, wanted.
I've caught myself in my bathroom with my blade out, each time getting closer to what I wanted: my release. Each time I barely stopped myself in time, telling myself, 'No! You can't do this. You have to be strong.' I knew that it was wrong, very wrong, but there was part of me that kept insisting I should do it, that it wasn't bad, that it was okay to do and that I was just being a coward.
That part of me grew. It became bigger, more persistent. I almost gave in a few times, giving my arm small, shallow cuts, nothing more. Giving it just enough to sedate its hunger. No one suspected anything. They thought it was just my dad again, and I didn't feel like correcting them. But just like the part of me that wanted a release, the cuts became bigger, getting deeper as time went on.
I'm in my bathroom now, my back against the door. My father had come home drunk and I was, of course, on the receiving end of his 'affection'. I had finished bandaging up the cuts and had moved on to putting a cold washcloth on the bruises that has started to swell, when I noticed my arm. It looked horrible; many cuts, both fresh and old, covered the underside while bruises were forming on the top. I knew the rest of my body had to look just as bad, but the cuts were what really bugged me. Knowing that I had done that, not my dad. I realized that I was possibly just as bad as him. The last thought hit me hard, especially since I didn't want to be anything like my father. Flashes of him went through my mind; him yelling, him getting drunk, him fighting with my mom, him as he was hitting me.
I pulled my blade out from my pocket and flipped it open in one swift movement. "No more small cuts," I told myself firmly. "This time for real." As I placed the cool blade to my bare wrist, glimpses of my friends went by. They started out small, going by quickly, but they got longer, more meaningful. Two-Bit grinning as he told a joke, Steve lecturing me about girls, Darry smiling as we played football, Soda cooking green pancakes, Dally trying to teach me to be tough (and failing miserably), Pony telling me about sunsets as we watched one together, and finally the whole group, just hanging out and talking. At that moment, I realized that I was being selfish. I was only thinking about the negative things and how bad I was hurting instead of thinking about my friends, the people that truly cared about me, and how I would have hurt them if I went through with what I was about to do.
In a split-second, my blade was back in my pocket and I was shoving on my shoes while grabbing my jacket. I didn't want to be here, in this house. I wanted to be with my friends, my real family, the people who fought my greatest battle for me. They fought against the blade in my hand, against my doubts, against the part of me that was gaining control. And the greatest thing about this fight was that they won.
End