I can't seem to move from my position on this soiled blanket. As I sit up,
I feel the long repressed bile rise and gush out of my mouth. I lean over
to the side and let it loose. When it passes, I wipe my mouth clean and
pull on my clothes. I head back to the castle, yearning to be in a shower.
The wind wipes around me viciously, I see the school ahead but I feel as if with every step I make, I move backwards two. At long last, I reach the heavy double oak doors that will lead me to a serene place.to me at least. I trudge my way to the nearest bathroom all the while fingering the sharp blade in my pocket. I barely get the light on when I strip down to my bare essentials with the knife in hand.
I stumbled in to the shower turning on the water, cranking up the heat and water pressure. Sitting on the cool tiles, I duck my head, then body, under the pulsating jets of sparkling, steaming water. One ordeal down, many more to get through. Why do I let him do this? Why must I always turn him on? I honestly believe that I do this.
All these questions and more bombard me. It's time for the internal pain to give way to the external. I reach over and grab the utensil that will make it all happen. I watch as it seemingly winks back at me, knowing what will happen next. I let out a strangled cry as I place the blade on my wrist, put pressure on it and slide it across my skin swiftly. I see a thin line of red begin to trickle onto the pristine tile beneath me. That was for every attempted suicide I've tried.
I have become transfixed; I don't want to pull my attention away from it but I have more pain to relive. Tonight's actions now flash before my eyes and I cried. More like sobbed out in anger, pain and confusion. I wish I could slice my thighs where he has kissed, bit and licked. I wish I could slice the innermost part of my thigh, where his body has lain, nestled perfectly yet obscenely between them. I would watch as the blood poured forth; I'd continued to cut until I move back to my arms. I cut both of them, for everytime I had to hold him in my arms, stroke him, and make all the stresses of the day go away. I wonder as I continue to try and reach my back, why must I make him feel better sexually? He is my father for fuck sake.
I would, then, slash my lower back; this is where he has always touched me before entry. I'd rather not dwell on that. But I brush these images from my mind for I know I would never do that as I make one more wound, a new one. I make a small gash over my ankle. That is for my Ronald. The one who has kept me alive this long, the one who will always brighten my day.
I sit here, with the water cascading and blood flowing down the drain, that I barely notice that I'm not the only one in this room. I heard a slight movement and asked aloud, "Who are you and how long have you been there?"
"Long enough."
"Well, at least show me who you are," I whisper harshly.
The person steps out from the shadows and I see a glint of gold and red.
"Ron."
The wind wipes around me viciously, I see the school ahead but I feel as if with every step I make, I move backwards two. At long last, I reach the heavy double oak doors that will lead me to a serene place.to me at least. I trudge my way to the nearest bathroom all the while fingering the sharp blade in my pocket. I barely get the light on when I strip down to my bare essentials with the knife in hand.
I stumbled in to the shower turning on the water, cranking up the heat and water pressure. Sitting on the cool tiles, I duck my head, then body, under the pulsating jets of sparkling, steaming water. One ordeal down, many more to get through. Why do I let him do this? Why must I always turn him on? I honestly believe that I do this.
All these questions and more bombard me. It's time for the internal pain to give way to the external. I reach over and grab the utensil that will make it all happen. I watch as it seemingly winks back at me, knowing what will happen next. I let out a strangled cry as I place the blade on my wrist, put pressure on it and slide it across my skin swiftly. I see a thin line of red begin to trickle onto the pristine tile beneath me. That was for every attempted suicide I've tried.
I have become transfixed; I don't want to pull my attention away from it but I have more pain to relive. Tonight's actions now flash before my eyes and I cried. More like sobbed out in anger, pain and confusion. I wish I could slice my thighs where he has kissed, bit and licked. I wish I could slice the innermost part of my thigh, where his body has lain, nestled perfectly yet obscenely between them. I would watch as the blood poured forth; I'd continued to cut until I move back to my arms. I cut both of them, for everytime I had to hold him in my arms, stroke him, and make all the stresses of the day go away. I wonder as I continue to try and reach my back, why must I make him feel better sexually? He is my father for fuck sake.
I would, then, slash my lower back; this is where he has always touched me before entry. I'd rather not dwell on that. But I brush these images from my mind for I know I would never do that as I make one more wound, a new one. I make a small gash over my ankle. That is for my Ronald. The one who has kept me alive this long, the one who will always brighten my day.
I sit here, with the water cascading and blood flowing down the drain, that I barely notice that I'm not the only one in this room. I heard a slight movement and asked aloud, "Who are you and how long have you been there?"
"Long enough."
"Well, at least show me who you are," I whisper harshly.
The person steps out from the shadows and I see a glint of gold and red.
"Ron."
