I think that it is a weighty possibility that I have been raped without me knowing it. Who's to say that somebody didn't shoot me full of heroin and then fucked me senseless while my entire mentality was somewhere else? They could have snuck me out of my house and then snack me back in just as stealthily. I mean, I have no physical evidence, but don't you just get those moments where it seems like something could have happened, but you're not aware of it?

Never mind.

But I do have an audience. It's not like I can see them, but they're definitely there, every single time I cut myself. I can tell; it's like my sixth sense or some other random voodoo shit. They're silent, their mouths gaping at me and silently applauding with their fucking pristine hands when they see the blood cascade down the inside of my thigh. I'm their entertainment.

All eyes on me

In the center of the ring

Just like a circus

I know that they're just waiting for me to screw up. They're patiently waiting for me to cut too deep or reopen too many wounds and just bleed to death. They're lingering just a bit longer than they want to for me to bleed out an effusion of blood and die. I'm absolutely positive that they'll get so fucking ecstatic when they get to set their eyes upon my corpse, all of its blood drained.

And I'm utterly terrified.

They're waiting for me to just slash the wrong way or too deep, but I'm frightened. I don't want to die, but at the same time, I want them [audience] to see that I'm perfectly capable of pleasing them. Sometimes, I don't want the control, but I know I have it.

I choose to pick up the glinting utensil and delicately cut my thigh open. It's my hand that's controlling the knife. My audience is sadistic, and they know it. They want me dead.

And I refuse to silently commit suicide just so they can enjoy it with their warped minds. If I die, I want it to be quick like jumping off of a building and just before I hit the ground, a bus hits me, thus killing me horizontally.

But now, it's almost New Years, and my brother's and I weren't invited to perform on Dick's. I can totally be monotonous and charismatic at the same time. I really didn't feel like putting on jeans and having them chafe against my mutilated skin.

I wish I could stop, but I can't. No. That's not it. I am perfectly capable of stopping this self torture, but I don't.

Why? You tell me.

It's four days after the fat man in the red suit supposedly came to our house. I'm still fifteen, and Frankie still believes in those fake tales my mother, father, and two older brothers feed him. Christmas morning, I cut before I went down to greet my family.

I went into the master bathroom, which belonged to my parents (biological or not, I might add) and went through my father's shaving supplied. Sometimes, when he doesn't use the regular razor, he has these rectangular steel blades. That's what I was searching for. As soon as I saw the minute container they were stored in, I could feel my face illuminate. My hand shook as my fingers wrapped themselves around the blade.

This always happened: getting anxious. I couldn't help it.

...

Review please? For Nicholas.