disclaimer: still... no camel. _;;;; _;;;;;
warnings: same as always you know... _;; lalala.. sorry for the confusing
the last chapter might have brought on... this chapter.. I'd gonna make it
rough... if you get queezy easily... this entire story pqueazyisnt for
you...
same everything else...
also: I dont have Word on my computer, no spell check -whatsoever- so this
is just me typing trying to do a good job. i tried to remember to
capitalize whatever i coudl remember, but dont kill me for the damned
typos. theyre abundant x_X;
notes: lalala..... *bashes head on a wall* lalala.... *bashes head on a
wall again* lalala.. i wanna die .... and before you have to ask me,
everything i describe happeneing in this chapter -can- happen without the
poor fucked soul dying. -_-; lalala.. i would know.. lalala.. i cant
die.... lalalala.. *bashed head on wall again* ohhh.. tickles....
chapter 16:
I walked into my room and closed the door behind me. It was slightly unnerving to see Quatre that out of it, he doesnt seem as sick as he does delerious though, wich is probably worse then seeing him sick, somehow.
I locked the door, an unconscious habit at this point, and went over to my bed, sitting on the edge of it. I took off my shirt and carelessly tossed it on the floor by my bed.
My arm was a mess. I guess I hadn't totally realized how sharp my razors were last night, before Quatre came in I wasn't using my new razors, however after I put him back in his bed...
I wrap my right arm, wich is fairly unscared around my stomach and continue staring at my arm. The top of my arm has numerous large scars that raise up on it, wich I find slightly amusing? (with my fucked up mind) It had always been harder for the bottom half of my arm to scar, even my wrist. I couldnt even try to count many times i cut my wrist, not with the way they were overlapping at this point. After Quatre left last night that was it.
I'm actually quite (dissapointed) surprised that I'd still alive.
I lean back with my one arm around my stomach and my other arm over my head. I close my eyes and a quick flashback of the razor going through my arm flashes before my closed eyes, for a split second i didnt even think it was deep, I was using only a slight amount of pressure, so i wasnt surprised by the fact it did gape. But it did. Oh yes it sure did, that long split second after i dragged the razor through the tender flesh of my lower wrist it sorta.. popped open and said hello. It took another split second before it started to bleed, and to my sick twisted mind the fact i saw the tiny blue line just barely under the skin right there actually made me giggle.
Then it started to bleed.. and I realized -just- how sharp my new razors were.
Nornally when I cut, I either go on the top of my arm in random lines, where ever there's still skin left, which there isnt much of, or I go on my wrist. If I ever cut the top of my lower arm i do neat little straight lines wich have almost no chance of scarring for more then maybe three years.
Normally this shit becomes a habit for people. Rituals of hacking themselves, rituals of what to do with the blood, why do it when they do it, who they tell, fucking ritual for everything.
Fuck that. They also say its an addiction. Fuck that as well. I've gone almost two months without doing shit to my arms or the rest of my body, then just started right back up no problem. I use to bleed onto the tiled bathroom floor to see the nice red little drops of blood when i first started, then i would clean it all up later.
Then I started to save it all in paper towells. One of the first nights I was using paper towels I strived to fill one up completely.
I still have the scars from that one, seven white lines a little to the left of my wrist.
Last night I pretty much filled 18 paper towells, not including the blood I just sat there licking up after I calmed down from what happened with Quatre and just settled on focusing on cutting.
The most stupid way of commiting suicide: The slitting of the wrists.
I hold over my face so I can see the multitude of cuts.
Four of them hit the vein.
After I saw the little blue line, (it was wide for a line, but still a line none the less) I took the razor, and into the allready open skin, cut deeper.
Then a little above that cut, dug my razor into my skin, and above that.. and above that.
The blood was dark, deep red. Above those four, 1/4th-1/2th inch wide cuts, near the very top of my wrist, where its easiest to see the veins...
I didn't even stop cutting repeatedly when I heard and felt the razor dragging against the bone in my wrist.
I'm sure I hit the vein there, but I wouldn't be able to tell exactly how many times.
The skin near the top of my wrist is a few shades of purple, and definately inflammed. I flex my fingers infront of my eyes, for a second not knowing whose hands they were exactly. I have pretty much full use of my hands, I cant clench my fist as hard as I normally can and the tips of my fingers have less touch sensation then they should. Maybe permenant damage there, who can tell? I guess in a few weeks or so if I still dont have full normal use of my hand then I'll settle for minimal nerve damage then.
I turn my arm over and look at the top of my arm. Fucking thing's nearly covered. It was always hard to scar the top of my lower arm. And when I would it would be those annoying little perfect lines.
Now, lots of nice, inch or so deep cuts randomly all over it. Even more half an inch deep, and barely any superficial. I could definately use stitches, and I would be more then happy to try to sew them up myself, but lacking a needle small enough for that I figure they'll scar by themselves.
Removing my other hand from my stomach I lightly run my fingertips over the marred flesh. Without really even touching the skin it still burns, the skin around the cuts burns, tingles, whatever. It hurts.
I drag my finger nails over the cuts, not hard enough to reopen them, but just enough to make it hurt all the much more.
For a while last night I was almost positive that I was gonna bleed to death. Obviously I didn't. However I didnt have any trouble sleeping. My vision was shakey, I was lightheaded, and just fell asleep. That 'lunch' I told Quatre I was having was actually my breakfast too.
Maybe pain is a release. Some way to get rid of my thoughts. That's been said was a common reason people cut themselves. I don't know though, It doesnt get rid of my thoughts, it doesnt release my anger, in fact it just makes me more angry. It doesn't calm me down much, only while doing it and sometimes it just angers me more.
I admit, at first when I didnt think I had a problem, but I'm not stupid, I know that having more then a thousand self inflicted scars is a problem, Its definately a problem.
But that doesnt mean I wanna stop.
I;ve cut in happy moods, bad moods, no-moods. There's no pattern. No rituals. Nothing, no triggers either. Just me and my little silver friend.
I roll over on my bed and sigh heavily. I notice a hair on the black sheets of my bed and pick it up. After closer inspection I deem it to be one of Quatre's, as it's much to blonde to be one of mine. Its long enough for me to twist it around some of my fingers.
I close my eyes and roll back over onto my back, my arm throbbing slightly, I barely even notice it though. I open my eyes and stare up at my ceiling, Quatre's hair still entwined in my fingers.
I thought it to be impossible for me to love anyone. Everytime I woudl start to get close to someone, if they didnt back away from me I would normally just shut down any version of emotion and 'go through motions' acting like I wasn't a stone, instead they saw a flightly, overly-hyper boy who knows how to make people laugh. I just figured it was either a protection mechanism or I was just incapable of caring deeply for someone.
Quatre's only been at my house for roughly two days. But we were in the war together, and when we were fighting along side eachother, and that one time after Heero played drama queen and blew himself up when I stayed at his hideout with him.
I felt something. More then I think I felt with anyone.
All these damned emotions piss me off. ~~~~~~~~~~~~
-_- READ AND REVIEW!!!! ._. reviews make me HAPPY! i LOVE reviews.. PLEASE REVIEW!! i'm BEGGING HERE!!! u_U; if this story doesnt start bringing in a few more reviews i'm just gonna start writing other ones and forget about this one. R-E-V-I-E-W
chapter 16:
I walked into my room and closed the door behind me. It was slightly unnerving to see Quatre that out of it, he doesnt seem as sick as he does delerious though, wich is probably worse then seeing him sick, somehow.
I locked the door, an unconscious habit at this point, and went over to my bed, sitting on the edge of it. I took off my shirt and carelessly tossed it on the floor by my bed.
My arm was a mess. I guess I hadn't totally realized how sharp my razors were last night, before Quatre came in I wasn't using my new razors, however after I put him back in his bed...
I wrap my right arm, wich is fairly unscared around my stomach and continue staring at my arm. The top of my arm has numerous large scars that raise up on it, wich I find slightly amusing? (with my fucked up mind) It had always been harder for the bottom half of my arm to scar, even my wrist. I couldnt even try to count many times i cut my wrist, not with the way they were overlapping at this point. After Quatre left last night that was it.
I'm actually quite (dissapointed) surprised that I'd still alive.
I lean back with my one arm around my stomach and my other arm over my head. I close my eyes and a quick flashback of the razor going through my arm flashes before my closed eyes, for a split second i didnt even think it was deep, I was using only a slight amount of pressure, so i wasnt surprised by the fact it did gape. But it did. Oh yes it sure did, that long split second after i dragged the razor through the tender flesh of my lower wrist it sorta.. popped open and said hello. It took another split second before it started to bleed, and to my sick twisted mind the fact i saw the tiny blue line just barely under the skin right there actually made me giggle.
Then it started to bleed.. and I realized -just- how sharp my new razors were.
Nornally when I cut, I either go on the top of my arm in random lines, where ever there's still skin left, which there isnt much of, or I go on my wrist. If I ever cut the top of my lower arm i do neat little straight lines wich have almost no chance of scarring for more then maybe three years.
Normally this shit becomes a habit for people. Rituals of hacking themselves, rituals of what to do with the blood, why do it when they do it, who they tell, fucking ritual for everything.
Fuck that. They also say its an addiction. Fuck that as well. I've gone almost two months without doing shit to my arms or the rest of my body, then just started right back up no problem. I use to bleed onto the tiled bathroom floor to see the nice red little drops of blood when i first started, then i would clean it all up later.
Then I started to save it all in paper towells. One of the first nights I was using paper towels I strived to fill one up completely.
I still have the scars from that one, seven white lines a little to the left of my wrist.
Last night I pretty much filled 18 paper towells, not including the blood I just sat there licking up after I calmed down from what happened with Quatre and just settled on focusing on cutting.
The most stupid way of commiting suicide: The slitting of the wrists.
I hold over my face so I can see the multitude of cuts.
Four of them hit the vein.
After I saw the little blue line, (it was wide for a line, but still a line none the less) I took the razor, and into the allready open skin, cut deeper.
Then a little above that cut, dug my razor into my skin, and above that.. and above that.
The blood was dark, deep red. Above those four, 1/4th-1/2th inch wide cuts, near the very top of my wrist, where its easiest to see the veins...
I didn't even stop cutting repeatedly when I heard and felt the razor dragging against the bone in my wrist.
I'm sure I hit the vein there, but I wouldn't be able to tell exactly how many times.
The skin near the top of my wrist is a few shades of purple, and definately inflammed. I flex my fingers infront of my eyes, for a second not knowing whose hands they were exactly. I have pretty much full use of my hands, I cant clench my fist as hard as I normally can and the tips of my fingers have less touch sensation then they should. Maybe permenant damage there, who can tell? I guess in a few weeks or so if I still dont have full normal use of my hand then I'll settle for minimal nerve damage then.
I turn my arm over and look at the top of my arm. Fucking thing's nearly covered. It was always hard to scar the top of my lower arm. And when I would it would be those annoying little perfect lines.
Now, lots of nice, inch or so deep cuts randomly all over it. Even more half an inch deep, and barely any superficial. I could definately use stitches, and I would be more then happy to try to sew them up myself, but lacking a needle small enough for that I figure they'll scar by themselves.
Removing my other hand from my stomach I lightly run my fingertips over the marred flesh. Without really even touching the skin it still burns, the skin around the cuts burns, tingles, whatever. It hurts.
I drag my finger nails over the cuts, not hard enough to reopen them, but just enough to make it hurt all the much more.
For a while last night I was almost positive that I was gonna bleed to death. Obviously I didn't. However I didnt have any trouble sleeping. My vision was shakey, I was lightheaded, and just fell asleep. That 'lunch' I told Quatre I was having was actually my breakfast too.
Maybe pain is a release. Some way to get rid of my thoughts. That's been said was a common reason people cut themselves. I don't know though, It doesnt get rid of my thoughts, it doesnt release my anger, in fact it just makes me more angry. It doesn't calm me down much, only while doing it and sometimes it just angers me more.
I admit, at first when I didnt think I had a problem, but I'm not stupid, I know that having more then a thousand self inflicted scars is a problem, Its definately a problem.
But that doesnt mean I wanna stop.
I;ve cut in happy moods, bad moods, no-moods. There's no pattern. No rituals. Nothing, no triggers either. Just me and my little silver friend.
I roll over on my bed and sigh heavily. I notice a hair on the black sheets of my bed and pick it up. After closer inspection I deem it to be one of Quatre's, as it's much to blonde to be one of mine. Its long enough for me to twist it around some of my fingers.
I close my eyes and roll back over onto my back, my arm throbbing slightly, I barely even notice it though. I open my eyes and stare up at my ceiling, Quatre's hair still entwined in my fingers.
I thought it to be impossible for me to love anyone. Everytime I woudl start to get close to someone, if they didnt back away from me I would normally just shut down any version of emotion and 'go through motions' acting like I wasn't a stone, instead they saw a flightly, overly-hyper boy who knows how to make people laugh. I just figured it was either a protection mechanism or I was just incapable of caring deeply for someone.
Quatre's only been at my house for roughly two days. But we were in the war together, and when we were fighting along side eachother, and that one time after Heero played drama queen and blew himself up when I stayed at his hideout with him.
I felt something. More then I think I felt with anyone.
All these damned emotions piss me off. ~~~~~~~~~~~~
-_- READ AND REVIEW!!!! ._. reviews make me HAPPY! i LOVE reviews.. PLEASE REVIEW!! i'm BEGGING HERE!!! u_U; if this story doesnt start bringing in a few more reviews i'm just gonna start writing other ones and forget about this one. R-E-V-I-E-W