My past isn't that interesting, now that I think about it. Painful, yes.
Bloody, yes. Indescribably horrid, hell yes. So what? You can hear the same
from almost every guy here.
It starts out with your basic painful bullshit. Momma died having me, Daddy got pissed because he couldn't beat her anymore, so he decided he would just beat up on himself. It took him about 3 years to figure out that wasn't exactly the bee's knees. So, by then I was old enough to truly annoy him and he started kick my ass around.
Okay, kick is the wrong word.Since he never technically 'beat' me. Beat as in 'beat up'. So, in a technical sense, he never 'kicked my ass'. Sliced, possibly. Never kicked.
Dad had this fixation with knives. He was a chef once, before they kicked him out for drinking all the expensive wine and cooking alcohol. So when he started drinking and drinking, and decided it would be a brilliant plan to abuse my mother, then himself, then me, the perfect weapon of choice had to be a kitchen knife.
He would slice my skin open and lock me in my room to watch myself bleed.
I mean, so what? Lots of kids' parents beat them. It ain't a crime, and most of the times you learned to live with it.
I'm worse, though. I learned to like it. Even when I ran away, became a Newsie, I still liked it. Too much, maybe.
Maybe it's the thrill of getting caught. Maybe it's the thrill of knowing I could really, seriously injure myself. Maybe it's the thrill of waiting for someone to notice the scars, start asking questions, and try to force me to stop.
I don't know, and don't particularly care one way or another. All I know is it's like a drug, a daily fix I need to deal with stress. The sharp, smooth steal slicing my skin, leaving nothing but a trail of blood and a thin, white scar in its wake-it feels so good, it's intoxicating.
But you know what they say; "It's all fun and games until someone looses an eye."
How ironic. That's exactly what happened to me.
I was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, admiring my handiwork-a fine cut running the length of my eyebrow. It was a bit jagged to be sure, and a little deeper then I intended, but still, a beauty of a cut. And I hadn't been using the mirror when I had done it.But now.
I licked my finger, tasting the coppery and ever present taste of blood. Using a mixture of both clear and red body fluids, I smoothed back my left eyebrow, the one still untouched. Slowly, carefully, deliberately, I raised the knife.
I missed.
I don't remember much after that. I remember screaming, pounding footsteps, boys yelling, a towel thrust on my eye, a carriage ride, lots of clean men in white coats, and a raucous, roaring pain.
I loved it.
I don't remember much of what the doctors said or what when on when they got me into the examining room-I'm pretty sure I had fainted by then. All I truly remember is waking quite sometime later with no depth perception and a throbbing ache in my head.
The fact I couldn't see worth a blood-nickel didn't bother me too much at first. I was so doped up on morphine, I think I probably could have been missing my head and wouldn't have really noticed. No, what got my attention was the pain ricocheting around my skull. It was a constant throb, never letting down for a second and burning slowly through my entire head and neck.
Pain wasn't supposed to be like this. Pain was slight, sharp and then seductively smooth as velvet, dripping with thin lines of blood, slow, cool and sweet. Not hot, burning inferno inside your head, not-well, painful.
"Kid?" A soft voice whispered. Even as doped up as I was, I did recognize that voice. I couldn't move to well, so I spoke to the ceiling in reply.
"Mush?"
"Yeah, it's me. I've been here all day. Are you alright?"
The blurry face of my selling partner appeared over me. I blinked my one good eye, slightly shocked. His curly hair was unruly, and dark circles under his eyes made him look like some sort of mulatto raccoon. A 5-o'clock shadow ran across his face.
"Whoa. You look a mess."
He chuckled, "You're alright. Kid's always been one to speak whatever's on his mind, hadn't he?"
I grinned back, "I guess." My grin faltered slightly, "Mush.Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask. T'aint mean you'll get told."
I took a deep breath, my focus moving all around before focusing on him again, "W-wot 'appened t' me?"
"Wewll." He sighed too, his focusing roving all over, obviously trying to find words. I became slightly agitated. Something was wrong. What? And why couldn't I see? What was going on?
What happened next was a blur-a rush of words and tears and pain. Mush explained, as quietly and slowly as he could, that Tumbler had found me, and that apparently I'd had an accident while shaving. I refused to believe him at first-my blades wouldn't hurt me, they inflicted pleasure and never pain. But then, he took the patch off my eye and raised me up so I could look in the mirror across the room, at the lidless red and white thing that had once been my eye. I screamed. Then cried. Then blabbered endlessly about my father, my knives, what he would do to me, what I would do to myself.
Mush didn't speak. He just listened. When I had finished, he still didn't speak, letting me cry myself out. After a few minuets, I could feel strong fingers wrap around my hand, squeezing it gently, "Whenever you feel like doing this to yourself again, just come find me, alright?" He chuckled, "Kid Blink?" I could drown in his eyes and smile. All I could do was nod.
And until today, I have kept that promise for a full 12 months. 1 year-the hardest, most painful, most wonderful year of my life. Old habits die hard- but Mush helped. A lot. He made sure he was always there, never letting me by myself for a moment. He even went to the pains of sleeping in the bunk above me-waiting until I fell asleep before he allowed himself to do the same, and waking up at the crack of dawn, just so he could be the one to awaken me. I loved him for always having a free shoulder for me to cry on; I hated him for being so damn understanding and caring. In either case, he helped more then anything anyone can say. And soon.I really began to appreciate him for it. A smile from Mush, a touch on the shoulder or an arm casually slung around my neck became the daily fix I needed, not the feel of the cool razor against my skin.
But now.As I look at the knife sitting on the counter, I wonder.
It's been so long. I'm over that kind of crap now. How much damage can one little cut do?
A lot. I ought to know that by now.
My name is Luis Ballet. This is why I am the way I am. How about you?
~!~!~!~
Weird chapter, because I just mashed two stories together. Errk. Sorry if it ended up kinda screwy.Ah well. I like it.
To my reviewers-I can't remember who reviewed the last chapter and I'm too lazy to check. Ah well. I love you all till death(or writers block) do us part, and thanks veerrry much.
Just where in hell are the flamers? I haven't gotten a decent flame yet, its rather annoying.Meh. Ah well.
It starts out with your basic painful bullshit. Momma died having me, Daddy got pissed because he couldn't beat her anymore, so he decided he would just beat up on himself. It took him about 3 years to figure out that wasn't exactly the bee's knees. So, by then I was old enough to truly annoy him and he started kick my ass around.
Okay, kick is the wrong word.Since he never technically 'beat' me. Beat as in 'beat up'. So, in a technical sense, he never 'kicked my ass'. Sliced, possibly. Never kicked.
Dad had this fixation with knives. He was a chef once, before they kicked him out for drinking all the expensive wine and cooking alcohol. So when he started drinking and drinking, and decided it would be a brilliant plan to abuse my mother, then himself, then me, the perfect weapon of choice had to be a kitchen knife.
He would slice my skin open and lock me in my room to watch myself bleed.
I mean, so what? Lots of kids' parents beat them. It ain't a crime, and most of the times you learned to live with it.
I'm worse, though. I learned to like it. Even when I ran away, became a Newsie, I still liked it. Too much, maybe.
Maybe it's the thrill of getting caught. Maybe it's the thrill of knowing I could really, seriously injure myself. Maybe it's the thrill of waiting for someone to notice the scars, start asking questions, and try to force me to stop.
I don't know, and don't particularly care one way or another. All I know is it's like a drug, a daily fix I need to deal with stress. The sharp, smooth steal slicing my skin, leaving nothing but a trail of blood and a thin, white scar in its wake-it feels so good, it's intoxicating.
But you know what they say; "It's all fun and games until someone looses an eye."
How ironic. That's exactly what happened to me.
I was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, admiring my handiwork-a fine cut running the length of my eyebrow. It was a bit jagged to be sure, and a little deeper then I intended, but still, a beauty of a cut. And I hadn't been using the mirror when I had done it.But now.
I licked my finger, tasting the coppery and ever present taste of blood. Using a mixture of both clear and red body fluids, I smoothed back my left eyebrow, the one still untouched. Slowly, carefully, deliberately, I raised the knife.
I missed.
I don't remember much after that. I remember screaming, pounding footsteps, boys yelling, a towel thrust on my eye, a carriage ride, lots of clean men in white coats, and a raucous, roaring pain.
I loved it.
I don't remember much of what the doctors said or what when on when they got me into the examining room-I'm pretty sure I had fainted by then. All I truly remember is waking quite sometime later with no depth perception and a throbbing ache in my head.
The fact I couldn't see worth a blood-nickel didn't bother me too much at first. I was so doped up on morphine, I think I probably could have been missing my head and wouldn't have really noticed. No, what got my attention was the pain ricocheting around my skull. It was a constant throb, never letting down for a second and burning slowly through my entire head and neck.
Pain wasn't supposed to be like this. Pain was slight, sharp and then seductively smooth as velvet, dripping with thin lines of blood, slow, cool and sweet. Not hot, burning inferno inside your head, not-well, painful.
"Kid?" A soft voice whispered. Even as doped up as I was, I did recognize that voice. I couldn't move to well, so I spoke to the ceiling in reply.
"Mush?"
"Yeah, it's me. I've been here all day. Are you alright?"
The blurry face of my selling partner appeared over me. I blinked my one good eye, slightly shocked. His curly hair was unruly, and dark circles under his eyes made him look like some sort of mulatto raccoon. A 5-o'clock shadow ran across his face.
"Whoa. You look a mess."
He chuckled, "You're alright. Kid's always been one to speak whatever's on his mind, hadn't he?"
I grinned back, "I guess." My grin faltered slightly, "Mush.Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask. T'aint mean you'll get told."
I took a deep breath, my focus moving all around before focusing on him again, "W-wot 'appened t' me?"
"Wewll." He sighed too, his focusing roving all over, obviously trying to find words. I became slightly agitated. Something was wrong. What? And why couldn't I see? What was going on?
What happened next was a blur-a rush of words and tears and pain. Mush explained, as quietly and slowly as he could, that Tumbler had found me, and that apparently I'd had an accident while shaving. I refused to believe him at first-my blades wouldn't hurt me, they inflicted pleasure and never pain. But then, he took the patch off my eye and raised me up so I could look in the mirror across the room, at the lidless red and white thing that had once been my eye. I screamed. Then cried. Then blabbered endlessly about my father, my knives, what he would do to me, what I would do to myself.
Mush didn't speak. He just listened. When I had finished, he still didn't speak, letting me cry myself out. After a few minuets, I could feel strong fingers wrap around my hand, squeezing it gently, "Whenever you feel like doing this to yourself again, just come find me, alright?" He chuckled, "Kid Blink?" I could drown in his eyes and smile. All I could do was nod.
And until today, I have kept that promise for a full 12 months. 1 year-the hardest, most painful, most wonderful year of my life. Old habits die hard- but Mush helped. A lot. He made sure he was always there, never letting me by myself for a moment. He even went to the pains of sleeping in the bunk above me-waiting until I fell asleep before he allowed himself to do the same, and waking up at the crack of dawn, just so he could be the one to awaken me. I loved him for always having a free shoulder for me to cry on; I hated him for being so damn understanding and caring. In either case, he helped more then anything anyone can say. And soon.I really began to appreciate him for it. A smile from Mush, a touch on the shoulder or an arm casually slung around my neck became the daily fix I needed, not the feel of the cool razor against my skin.
But now.As I look at the knife sitting on the counter, I wonder.
It's been so long. I'm over that kind of crap now. How much damage can one little cut do?
A lot. I ought to know that by now.
My name is Luis Ballet. This is why I am the way I am. How about you?
~!~!~!~
Weird chapter, because I just mashed two stories together. Errk. Sorry if it ended up kinda screwy.Ah well. I like it.
To my reviewers-I can't remember who reviewed the last chapter and I'm too lazy to check. Ah well. I love you all till death(or writers block) do us part, and thanks veerrry much.
Just where in hell are the flamers? I haven't gotten a decent flame yet, its rather annoying.Meh. Ah well.