Author's note: Warning! This chapter contains self-mutilation. For those of you uncomfortable with the topic, stop reading now. And I don't mean skip this chapter, because the cutting descriptions will only get more bloody and graphic. I'm considering changing the rating on this story to R- do you think it's necessary? Tell me in reviews.
Chapter 6
Experimenting with Pain
Dammit. I want to die. I hate my life. I want it all to end. Now. But then everybody will be sad and shit. They'll feel bad and blame themselves for my suicide. Maybe I should go off to college and kill myself there? Make it seem like a random death.
I wonder what it would be like to die? Painful.. And then nothing. OK. Nothing I can deal with. I want nothing. I don't care what happens next.
But the pain... Could I really take the pain of stabbing myself and not flinch and give up?
I looked around me. A pair of scissors. Maybe I can get some practice, build up my resistance to pain so that I will be able to take stabbing myself. I picked them up, opened them, brought them up to my arm, and slashed. I flinched back in pain. There wasn't even blood. I'm such a fucking wimp. Or maybe I just have to overcome my stupid reflexes. Ah well. I'll just cut more and try harder, and I'll be able to handle it. I lifted the scissors back up, and this time slowly closed them on the skin of my forearm. It hurt like hell, but in a way, it felt kind of good. I tightened them, hoping to cut my skin like a piece of paper.
I kept the scissors closed on my arm for a full fifteen minutes, then let go. I can't believe I didn't cut through the skin. I sighed, then closed the scissors on my arm again.
After releasing the scissors, I noticed that the place where I closed the scissors the first time was bleeding. I smiled.
I thought of what else I could do, and went upstairs to my bathroom and grabbed my razor. Perfect. Now, only one more question: where to cut.
Almost automatically, I bring the razor to my right hand. I pull it over my knuckles. No blood. No pain. Well, it's only once, what did I expect? I will do it a full fifty times! To each knuckle!
I cut and cut. Ten times. Nothing.
Twenty times. They look a little red.
Thirty times. Blood slowly seeps out, filling in the creases of my skin, staining them a bright red.
Forty times. Tearing my cuts farther open. Watching the blood flow in tiny streams through every crevasse in my knuckles. I held my hand up to the light, which reflected off of the already bright red streams. Beautiful. And slightly painful.
Fifty times. I stood, amazed. Fifty cuts. In less than a minute. It did not even seem like an endurance test... If it was a test at all, it was a test to keep up the pace of the counting in my mind to match the pace of my cutting. I stood there, smiling.
Smiling. I hadn't really smiled in the past few weeks. Yet, with my knuckles soaked in blood, a dull, stinging pain, and a bloodied razor in my hand, I smiled. All of my tension, my anger, my agony- released. What brought me to do this to myself anyway? Who cares. I was too wrapped up in my thrill to care.
Suddenly, my mind came back to its senses. I couldn't stay locked in the bathroom admiring my bloody hand like this forever. I had to clean up and leave and act normal sometimes. Sighing, I turned on the faucet and held my hand under it. The water reddened as it fell, while my hand lost its new color. I turned the faucet off, but, almost instantly, more blood seeped out of the small torn holes in my hand. Again, I cleaned my hand. And twenty minutes later, the blood stopped.
I went to bed that night happier and more peaceful than ever before.
Chapter 6
Experimenting with Pain
Dammit. I want to die. I hate my life. I want it all to end. Now. But then everybody will be sad and shit. They'll feel bad and blame themselves for my suicide. Maybe I should go off to college and kill myself there? Make it seem like a random death.
I wonder what it would be like to die? Painful.. And then nothing. OK. Nothing I can deal with. I want nothing. I don't care what happens next.
But the pain... Could I really take the pain of stabbing myself and not flinch and give up?
I looked around me. A pair of scissors. Maybe I can get some practice, build up my resistance to pain so that I will be able to take stabbing myself. I picked them up, opened them, brought them up to my arm, and slashed. I flinched back in pain. There wasn't even blood. I'm such a fucking wimp. Or maybe I just have to overcome my stupid reflexes. Ah well. I'll just cut more and try harder, and I'll be able to handle it. I lifted the scissors back up, and this time slowly closed them on the skin of my forearm. It hurt like hell, but in a way, it felt kind of good. I tightened them, hoping to cut my skin like a piece of paper.
I kept the scissors closed on my arm for a full fifteen minutes, then let go. I can't believe I didn't cut through the skin. I sighed, then closed the scissors on my arm again.
After releasing the scissors, I noticed that the place where I closed the scissors the first time was bleeding. I smiled.
I thought of what else I could do, and went upstairs to my bathroom and grabbed my razor. Perfect. Now, only one more question: where to cut.
Almost automatically, I bring the razor to my right hand. I pull it over my knuckles. No blood. No pain. Well, it's only once, what did I expect? I will do it a full fifty times! To each knuckle!
I cut and cut. Ten times. Nothing.
Twenty times. They look a little red.
Thirty times. Blood slowly seeps out, filling in the creases of my skin, staining them a bright red.
Forty times. Tearing my cuts farther open. Watching the blood flow in tiny streams through every crevasse in my knuckles. I held my hand up to the light, which reflected off of the already bright red streams. Beautiful. And slightly painful.
Fifty times. I stood, amazed. Fifty cuts. In less than a minute. It did not even seem like an endurance test... If it was a test at all, it was a test to keep up the pace of the counting in my mind to match the pace of my cutting. I stood there, smiling.
Smiling. I hadn't really smiled in the past few weeks. Yet, with my knuckles soaked in blood, a dull, stinging pain, and a bloodied razor in my hand, I smiled. All of my tension, my anger, my agony- released. What brought me to do this to myself anyway? Who cares. I was too wrapped up in my thrill to care.
Suddenly, my mind came back to its senses. I couldn't stay locked in the bathroom admiring my bloody hand like this forever. I had to clean up and leave and act normal sometimes. Sighing, I turned on the faucet and held my hand under it. The water reddened as it fell, while my hand lost its new color. I turned the faucet off, but, almost instantly, more blood seeped out of the small torn holes in my hand. Again, I cleaned my hand. And twenty minutes later, the blood stopped.
I went to bed that night happier and more peaceful than ever before.
