Hey, so trigger warning. If this could trigger you in ANY way, please don't read.

Warnings: Self Harm, small suicidal thoughts, and homophobic slurs

Hope you like!

I know I have to punish myself for this.

I grip the razor and drag it across my arm, the beads of crimson following the path. The release is amazing. Everybody can do whatever they want to me, but this is the only thing I can control myself. My dad can beat me when he's drunk, the bullies can torture me for just loving someone, but no one can take this away from me.

My dad. I hate that man. The only reason he hugged me is because he didn't want to seen like a bad father, even though he has told me many times he hates me and wishes I was someone else. He says he's too drunk to remember the times when he beat me into unconsciousness. He states he doesn't remember ever leaving bruises or burns on me. Bullshit. But I remember. Every minute of it. Every day when I move I'm reminded when I feel the sensation of my back stretching. It burns. I don't tell anyone because I'm too scared.

I'm such a coward. I can't take a couple hits like a man. But somewhere deep down, I know it's wrong. He's been doing this since I was seven. That's nine years.

That's one of the reasons I'm dragging the blade across my arm again. Three, four, five, six more times.

I hiss at the pain as the water runs over the fresh cuts.

The other reason is the bullies. My eyes close as a painful memory takes over my thoughts.

"Fag"

Slam! The lock of a locker is pressed in between my two shoulder blades.

"Cock-sucker"

There's a force against my chest as I try to fight back to no extent, the lock painfully bruising its way into my skin.

"Just do us a favor, and kill yourself"

My head is slammed back into the locker. I whimper at the pain as I slide down the locker, sitting on the cold floor.

I drove home. I couldn't stand another minute at this hell-hole.

Not today.

Today is the anniversary of my mother's death. She was in a car crash exactly seven years ago. I'm fourteen now. The day she died was the first day my father beat me. He said if I hadn't gotten sick, then she wouldn't have been on her way to pick me up from the nurse's office at school in second grade.

He thinks it's my fault.

I pull into my driveway as tears cloud up my vision.

My dad's car is in the driveway. That's weird, he should be at work.

I walk into the house and go into the living room.

My dad is sitting on the recliner with a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

"You're home early" he says.

"Yeah. Tough day." I reply

"Whatever"

"I'll be upstairs"

"Oh, no you won't"

He gets up off the couch and walks over to me. I brace myself, I already know what's going to happen.

The first punch hurt. But, there's no use in fighting back. I learned that the hard way. I tried blocking punches before and that only got me more beatings.

More punches, kicks, slaps.

I'm on the floor now, curled up the best I can, tears falling freely down my face.

"I'm not even drunk, fag."

I wince at the name. How did he figure out I was gay?

He answered the questions in my thoughts.

"I got a phone call today, telling me my son was gay." he says harshly "No son of mine is gay"

He spat on me and after another kick, he walks out of the house like nothing's happened.

I stayed curled up for a few minutes before realizing it was probably best to get up before he gets back. I take a shower to wipe the blood off and wince as I poke a bruise on my ribs.

Then I saw the razor.

That was the first time I cut.

I don't know what it was, but seeing the red drip down my arm gave me a sense of reassurance as if telling me it would be alright. Of course I was still a minor for four more years, but then I would be out of the horrid town and make something of myself.

I open my eyes and wince as I realize my grip on the razor was causing a deep cut in my hand. I think about some things as I wash the blood, step out of the shower, get band-aids, and put on some sweats and a flannel.

I mostly think about my life.

I've thought about suicide many times. I've gotten close before. I want to die sometimes so much it hurts. But then I remember that I am going to get out of this town. Sometimes cutting is what I do when I think it is the only thing stopping me from committing suicide. It's the feeling as I slice my arm that everything is real. The two years before I leave this town is real.

"Only two more years" I whisper to myself.

Without that reassurance, I would've ended it a long time ago.

I walk out of the bathroom to see Nick laying on his bed with his arms behind his head, smiling at me.

Oh, his beautiful arms... Wait, what?

"Well, you took forever" he says smiling

I look down guiltily. Soon, his expression changes. "I'm just kidding Jeff, c'mon loosen up."

I spare a small smile and go to my bed before laying down and closing my eyes. It takes a while before I fall into a fitful sleep just as I hear the shower turn on.