Chemtober Challenge; Oneshots and Drawings.

TWELVE: Knives

I ended this one with some fluff because I'm starting to concern myself (and my friends tbh) but it's still pretty fucking bad.

do not read this if self harm triggers you.
Trigger warning: suicidal thoughts, self harm/addiction, vomiting, blood, self hatred, talk of suicide, cynical thought process and hopeless/negative attitude.

Getting held at gunpoint at fifteen while a thirty-something year old coke addict demands your money and belongings is one of those things that you always think will never happen to you.

Until it happens to you.

In the moment, you're scared shitless. Because of course you weren't fucking expecting this to happen. Right afterward, it almost feels like it didn't really happen (except your wallet and brand new comic book are still no longer in your possession). And as the day ends, or the weekend sneaks up on you, and you're trying to get back into your routine, you maybe start to realize how it's affecting you.

Like, okay, just in case, I'm going to start carrying a knife with me. A switchblade, nothing fancy. Actually it was pretty shitty. It had bad joints and stuck when you tried to put it away, and sometimes it's switch would either respond too sensitively, or not respond at all.

So, of course I wasn't going to just have a knife and no clue how to use it. I had to learn something basic at least, just in case someone tried to come at me again. I just didn't want it to happen again. It was fucking scary.

Over the next few years, I watched videos and read books on self defense, on different ways you could totally conceal a larger knife and still get to it quickly, just in case.

In my spare time, practicing the many movements with the blade I'd bought, I had a few accidents with it. Cuts and slices were just a part of it. A nick on my hand, tiny lacerations not much larger than paper cuts on my fingers, and a couple bad ones here and there that needed a little cleanup and a sizable bandaid.

Made it easier to lie, about the other thing. Which was... not exactly something I thought I'd ever do, but, well, there I was.

It was nothing, at first. Rubbing my arms, legs, through my jeans and shirtsleeves. Someone asks, I'm just cold, nervous. I'm doing school, I'm in a public place. It gets brushed off.

It gets worse. Every alley was a threat, any shadow was a predator awaiting my ignorant passing. I was paranoid and so fucking afraid. All the time. I wished I could just get the fuck over myself and be brave already. Wasn't it time I grew up? I was almost done with high school, but finals were kicking my fucking ass. What was I gonna do in the real world? Would I even make it into art school? Did I even deserve to? A weak little shit like me. I couldn't handle myself as a kid, much less real life on my own. College didn't even look worth trying anymore. Where was everything going to so fast? Wasn't I helping Mikey tie his shoes before kindergarten just last week? Didn't I only just hit thirteen? How was I this close to adulthood and childhood all at once?

The rubbing turned to scratching. The worse the thoughts are, the harder they are to contain or control, the more violent my fingernails got.

Pushing through school, stress gets higher. Sleep gets less. Grandpa dies. Mom isn't the same anymore. Dad is angry and distant, yelling at you over stupid, meaningless things. You can hear your little brother crying himself to sleep in the bed next to yours and you blame yourself for not trying to help him even though you don't fucking know how to.

You want it all to be your fault, so you start convincing yourself that it is. And that lie is so fucking hard to hear the truth through.

You punish yourself for it. This time rubbing or scratching is the last thing on your mind. I wanted to see my hurt. I wanted to see what I thought I deserved. It was easy. And the immediate relief I felt in it, lied to me and claimed worth it. But then the guilt settled in. You were already angry at yourself, but now you're disgusted. How dare you?