My alarm screamed at me and I slowly opened my eyes. Oh, crap. I stared at my wall because I didn’t have the energy to do anything else. Drowsiness erupted me as I realised it was a Monday morning.
Then two things happened at once. The first was that an earthquake exploded in my brain, my mind splitting from the world’s worst head ache. The second was that every single ounce of pain that had been caused yesterday flowed into my body and pounced on me like a little bitch.
I lifted my head, but the pillow came with it. I peeled the fabric off and saw that it was caked in my own blood. I started to heave.
I hobbled to the bathroom, occasionally wincing and buckling as I put weight on my injured ankle. I collapsed by the toilet and threw up, making retched noises that made me feel even sicker. After about twenty minutes of sitting here, I crawled back into my bedroom and lay against the wall at the bottom of my bed. I pulled my duvet over me and just sat there. Thankful that the tablets I picked last night to kill myself were pain killers, I popped one into my mouth and swallowed it. I sighed deeply.
The clock on the wall told me it was almost eleven in the morning. Crap. School had started almost three hours ago. I rolled my eyes and groaned. The wind whined against my window as I shut my eyes and tried to get my head around things.
Yesterday I’d gotten beaten up, badly. My face was ruined and my ankle was killing me. My ribs and chest hurt but I hadn’t had a chance to look at them yet. I’d decided to end my life. Who would really care, anyway? Once I started to attempt suicide, weird things started happening. Did I blame that on the alcohol consumption or did it actually happen? Alcohol consumption was the answer. I ended up not doing it because someone didn’t want me to, right?
I scratched my head in frustration. Flakes of blood rained down onto my duvet. I could feel bile rising in my throat again.
What did you do to deserve this, Noah?
I pushed myself and limped into the bathroom again. I ripped my clothes off my body and almost fell into the shower. The hot water was perfect but painful against my dirty skin. I balanced on one leg as I rubbed the soap over me, turning myself into a suddy monster.
Washing my dark hazel hair made me feel so much cleaner. I groaned in delight as I watched the blood and dirt run down the drain. I scrubbed my arm pits and then observed my body. My chest had a few peculiar bruises that looked like a foot and my stomach had one long, thin cut running from my ribs to my belly button. I frowned, knowing that I needed to have my ankle checked out and this would look totally suspicious.
My cuts stung as I finally gave them a final scrub, but it felt so much better. They’d stopped bleeding. My mother was in work so I walked – or rather limped, but y’know – into my bedroom butt naked and rummaged around for some clothes. I picked out a Red Hot Chili Peppers’ tee and chucked it on along with a fresh pair of boxers, jeans and some converse (taking extra care with my right foot which had swollen up a decent amount). I grabbed my bedding and tried not to take in the smell of old blood as I carried it downstairs and stuffed it in the washing machine. I gagged, but regained myself. I opened the fridge and the smell of food turned me sick, so I picked up a cup from the cabinet and poured myself a glass of water.
This was the first time I happened to look at my left wrist. Shit. I had a deep marking that was about one or two centimetres long. You could pretty much tell it was self-harm. I winced. I got enough stick at it was, without having to worry about what people would think when they see this.
I walked out of the kitchen and opened up the cupboard under the stairs. I grabbed my hoody and put it on myself, grateful for the warmth and the fact the arms were too big for me. I fished in the pocket and found my iPod and my earphones, and I stuck them in, blocking the world out.
