Hours later Christina was laying on her side on the couch of the
living room. Her back was puffy and swollen red from her punishment that
morning. Her father was gone, she wasn't sure where, probably out to get
more cigarettes or beer, maybe even in a bar somewhere.
She arose miserably from the stained couch and walked to the bathroom to examine her wounds. The small bathroom was small and dirty, but it worked for just two people living in the house. The tiled floor hadn't been moped in ages, nor had the toilet been cleaned. It was gross, but it was life. She lifted her grubby white shirt up over her head, relieving her scarred bare chest. She sat with tears running down her pale cheeks, checking the reflection in the mirror. Her hand ran along her stomach, tracing the dark scars with her fingers. She remembered most of the ugly marks; they were all painful memories of her father. She proceeded to move her fingers to her chest, where several cut marks wore deep into her skin. These hadn't been from her father though, they had been from herself. She remembered the first time she had done it, it was also the first time her father had hit her:
_
"Why did you not cleaning up your dishes Christie?" Her father and she had just gotten back from her mother's funeral. It was exactly 6 years and two months ago, to the day. Christina (her parent's are the only people who ever called her Christie.) was crying hysterically at the moment, and was in no mood to put away dishes.
"But Daddy, I don't want to." She continued to sob with her hands cupping her cheeks.
"Listen young lady! You will do it! I am upset about your mother...dying too." He hesitated at the 'd word' "I loved her very much too. Now go do it!" Her dad was now pointing a finger at her, his face was red with anger.
"No!" Christina responded threw gasps of air. "I won't do it, at least not now."
"You won't huh?" Her father began to remove is black belt from his waist. "Then you will be punished instead." He threw back the belt in his tough hand, and brought it forward, hitting Christina in the side. She began crying harder. "Will you shut up!? I am getting a headache from all of your crying!"
"Why did you hit me Daddy?" She asked threw gasps of pain as she grabbed her side.
"Because you are a very bad girl, now go do it!" He hit her again, this time on the back. She stood up and hobbled to the sink to do what her father had asked.
Later the evening she had decided to take a shower. The hot water stung her new wounds as it poured onto her back. She remembered just seeing her fathers shaver in the shower set her off. She, what seemed like naturally, broke the shaver, and cut madly at her inner thigh. The pain had numbed after the first slice; the only thing she could feel now was relief; relief of all her anger, her sadness, and troubles. It made her feel whole again. That was the start of it all...
_
Christina now turned around as she stared at her bruised and scarred back. She examined the new wound and carefully placed some "ouch cream" as her mother has once called it. It stung at first, but slowly made the aching pain go away.
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she soon began to cry. She didn't hold back anything. All she could think about was the bad things in her life. She slowly reached for "the box" that she kept in a bathroom drawer. She opened it to relive several different tools: a dozen needles, a broken shaver blade, a knife she had stolen from the kitchen, and a few razor blades. She chose her favorite one; A small razor blade that had a few speaks of dried blood from previous occurrences covering the tip. She began to slice at her wrists. All she wanted to do at the moment was die, she wished desperately that she would. Drops of her blood fell to the floor as her vision became blurred. But she continued to cut, deeper and deeper as the puddle on the floor became bigger. Black spots started to dance along her stream of vision as she felt a tear fall to her cheek. "Is this what dieing is like?" She asked herself as she fell to the floor, somehow managing to dodge the pile of blood. "It doesn't seem all that bad..." She whispered again to herself just as her vision went blank.
She arose miserably from the stained couch and walked to the bathroom to examine her wounds. The small bathroom was small and dirty, but it worked for just two people living in the house. The tiled floor hadn't been moped in ages, nor had the toilet been cleaned. It was gross, but it was life. She lifted her grubby white shirt up over her head, relieving her scarred bare chest. She sat with tears running down her pale cheeks, checking the reflection in the mirror. Her hand ran along her stomach, tracing the dark scars with her fingers. She remembered most of the ugly marks; they were all painful memories of her father. She proceeded to move her fingers to her chest, where several cut marks wore deep into her skin. These hadn't been from her father though, they had been from herself. She remembered the first time she had done it, it was also the first time her father had hit her:
_
"Why did you not cleaning up your dishes Christie?" Her father and she had just gotten back from her mother's funeral. It was exactly 6 years and two months ago, to the day. Christina (her parent's are the only people who ever called her Christie.) was crying hysterically at the moment, and was in no mood to put away dishes.
"But Daddy, I don't want to." She continued to sob with her hands cupping her cheeks.
"Listen young lady! You will do it! I am upset about your mother...dying too." He hesitated at the 'd word' "I loved her very much too. Now go do it!" Her dad was now pointing a finger at her, his face was red with anger.
"No!" Christina responded threw gasps of air. "I won't do it, at least not now."
"You won't huh?" Her father began to remove is black belt from his waist. "Then you will be punished instead." He threw back the belt in his tough hand, and brought it forward, hitting Christina in the side. She began crying harder. "Will you shut up!? I am getting a headache from all of your crying!"
"Why did you hit me Daddy?" She asked threw gasps of pain as she grabbed her side.
"Because you are a very bad girl, now go do it!" He hit her again, this time on the back. She stood up and hobbled to the sink to do what her father had asked.
Later the evening she had decided to take a shower. The hot water stung her new wounds as it poured onto her back. She remembered just seeing her fathers shaver in the shower set her off. She, what seemed like naturally, broke the shaver, and cut madly at her inner thigh. The pain had numbed after the first slice; the only thing she could feel now was relief; relief of all her anger, her sadness, and troubles. It made her feel whole again. That was the start of it all...
_
Christina now turned around as she stared at her bruised and scarred back. She examined the new wound and carefully placed some "ouch cream" as her mother has once called it. It stung at first, but slowly made the aching pain go away.
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she soon began to cry. She didn't hold back anything. All she could think about was the bad things in her life. She slowly reached for "the box" that she kept in a bathroom drawer. She opened it to relive several different tools: a dozen needles, a broken shaver blade, a knife she had stolen from the kitchen, and a few razor blades. She chose her favorite one; A small razor blade that had a few speaks of dried blood from previous occurrences covering the tip. She began to slice at her wrists. All she wanted to do at the moment was die, she wished desperately that she would. Drops of her blood fell to the floor as her vision became blurred. But she continued to cut, deeper and deeper as the puddle on the floor became bigger. Black spots started to dance along her stream of vision as she felt a tear fall to her cheek. "Is this what dieing is like?" She asked herself as she fell to the floor, somehow managing to dodge the pile of blood. "It doesn't seem all that bad..." She whispered again to herself just as her vision went blank.