Empty

●Chapter Eight●

●Daichi's Point of View●

"You're not tall enough to play, I hope you realize that." Some random kid in elementary school volleyball club enjoyed picking on me. 

"I am too! I can play just as well as you can!" I screamed. 

"I doubt that. You'll never be good enough for this team. Coach only keeps you in so everyone has equal playing time." 

"I...You're lying."

"Where's your proof? Huh? You'll never amount to anything in the volleyball world." He shoved me to the floor of the court we stood on. I loved the sport. So so so much. I never missed practice, never missed a game. Got there early and stayed late. But that day...That day I ran out of practice before our coach even got there. I ran home to an empty house, as my parents were working. 

I hated myself. The words stuck in my mind, and do still to this day. They got louder and louder, I didn't know what to do. 

I'd seen another kid at my school who'd done it. I never thought I'd do it but...when I got home, I grabbed a pair of scissors I had lying around and dragged it across my arms. The first few were barely scratches, didn't even break the skin. But the more I cried, the more I let those thoughts eat away at me, the harder I pushed the scissors down. 

To hide the cuts while I played, I claimed I needed sports sleeves so I didn't hurt my arms when I dove for balls and my skin would drag on the hardwood flooring. I won't lie, it hurt like a bitch to play with cuts constantly...but after a while, I got used to it. The pain became part of the game. 

My first time cutting wasn't what landed me in the hospital. That happened in my second year of middle school, after 3 years of cutting.

My parents came home in the middle of what I was doing. I was lucky they did though. I would've bled out if they didn't find me. It was a bad mental breakdown. I was being bullied, within and out of volleyball club. I was on the brink of being kicked out of the club due to my grades. I wasn't always into my education. I hated school, I hated life, I hated myself. 

I sat in my living room and bawled, wanting nothing more than to die. So, that's what I tried. I cut my arms until I had no room left to cut. Some cuts deeper than others, one cut a little too deep. My mom walked in, behind her was my father, not even a minute after I'd made it. They found me sobbing and covered in my own blood. 

The look on my parents faces were horrifying. They were scared, concerned but they were also angry. Not with me, but the situation, the fact that I felt that I needed to do this, angry at those that made me feel like I needed to do this. This was the first time they saw this. It was the first time they found out. 

One cut, from what I could remember, was bad enough that it needed stitches. I was rushed to the hospital, still crying and pleading for them to leave me to die. 

I was put in a psychiatric hospital for a bit after that. I eventually got better. Got meds, therapy, and was put back into the hospital 3 months later when I relapsed after the initial hospital admission. 

That was my last time cutting, before that second stay right before I went into my third year in middle school. 

I'd be lying if I said there weren't days where I still wanted to relapse though…

Word Count; 637