Chapter 4 |Chute

Okay, let's fast forward a bit. Shall we?

I'm sixteen, fragile, young. What all sixteen year olds are. Fragile. Young.

But, I'm more than that. I'm broken, old. I've never been a child. I never will be. I've come to accept that, though. I've learned not to ask for anything, because I never get it. And, I most likely never will. Don't be sad for me, I don't want your pity. Ever.

I'm sitting in the bedroom I share with my sister. I'm sitting at my computer desk staring at nothing. On the desk lie a broken razor and a tissue. This is what my afternoons have consisted of for the past two weeks. I've yet to make a single cut; I can't seem to make myself do it. Because I know once I do I won't stop. I don't like how this makes me feel. The fact that I can't that I can't pick up the fucking razor and just do it makes me feel weak.

I don't like feeling weak.

That day, I finally did it. And it started the viscous cycle. They always say the first cut is the deepest. And they're right. The scar of that first cut is deepest and darkest.

I remember the blood flowing down my arm. I remember my hand shaking as I tried to make the bleeding stop. I remember the images of my failures flashing behind my eyelids as I sobbed into the wooden desk. I remember the feeling of desolation and fear sweeping through my body. I remember the stares the next day at school. Like they knew how I spent my night the day before.

I remember the feeling of immense guilt.

That day after, I had never felt more hideous in my entire life. From that point on, I turned away from everyone and everything.

I remember going to the cliffs near the house one day. I daydreamed of jumping. Getting lost in the waters below. Becoming a part of it.

I was a dreamer. And when I jumped, I thought I could fly.