This is a short story that I wrote. I don't even know how long ago. Someone told me I should continue it, like make the rest of the story what led up to this. But I don't think I could. Besides, I think there are too many stories already like this, you know? So I guess I'll just leave it at this. Vote, Comment, or Fan if you'd like.
Bleed.
Today, just for the hell of it, I cut myself. This was the first time that I took the scissors to my skin without a reason. Usually, I would cut myself, watching the blood run free down my flesh, because of something that pissed me off, or something that hurt me. But today—no, today was different. Like I said, I pierced my skin just for the hell of it. To say that I don’t feel anything when I cut, well that would be a lie. Even if I am completely and totally pissed to no end, I always feel the stabbing pain when I slice open my flesh. But today…today, for who knows what reason, I welcome the pain. As an experiment, I was just going to cut myself once, a small like scratch on the inner part of my arm. When I could see a satisfiable wound on my arm, I set aside the scissors. For a moment, I just looked at the cut, watching as the cut itself turned white, and the skin around it turning red. I ran my finger over the slight raised edge of the cut, and smiled to myself. As if I was another person, I saw that smile, and even I didn’t like it. It scared me, but all I could think about was what I could do to the rest of my body. In the back of my mind, I wondered what it would be like if every cut I made would scar. It fascinated me so, that I decided to cut a little deeper, and yet deeper still. My arm was now crisscrossed with red marks. Blood seeped from the narrow cuts, and something compelled me to bend my head towards it. Tentatively, I ran my tongue along the slashes, lapping up the blood into my mouth. It tasted like copper and salt, and it wasn’t pleasant. For some reason, I wanted more. I smiled as I carved ‘F.U.’ into the skin of my upper arm. It was a message, not only to myself, whom I hated, but to everyone in the world; to my parents, who caused me nothing but self loathing; to my siblings, who were always loved far better than me; to my teachers, who never seemed to like me, even though I was a straight-A student; and lastly, to the people I called me friends, who I knew couldn’t give less of a damn about me. “Fuck to you all,” I breathed. My entire arm, from wrist to shoulder, was now completely covered in cuts. I didn’t cut deep enough for them all to bleed, and the ones that did were only shallow bleeding cuts. My entire arm was covered, but I was still not satisfied. Who was to say that these would even still be evident come morning? I could wake up tomorrow, and any trace of my pain would be gone. And I could not have that happen. My pain and suffering were not to be brushed off as nothing; it was not to be forgotten so easily. I didn’t live this shit life for nothing. I should get something out of it. What I got out of it, was pain. But not the pain that plagued me every day of my fucking shit filled-life. Pain that I could control; pain that came and went as I wanted it to. Not pain caused by the idiots surrounding me, but pain that I could inflict on myself. I had the control over this pain, and that is why I liked it. That is why I enjoyed it, sought it out. This pain was good, and I would make it last.
I flung my covers off of me, exposing my barely covered legs. I wore only shorts and a tank top, so most of my skin was visible. I grabbed my scissors, and wiped the blood on a tissue I kept on my bedside table. I looked over my legs, scoping out the best place to start. I turned the scissors so I could cut with the sharper end, and began slicing. I smiled as the pain tore up and down my leg like fire burning my flesh. It was intoxicating, this pain. I had to keep myself from laughing gleefully at how wonderful it was. Fuck, I thought. I let my mind wander, and sliced too deep in my leg. I hit a vein, and blood spurted out of my leg. For the second time that night, in my life, I leaned down and licked the blood that flowed from my veins. And again, I recognized the taste of copper and salt. It was disgusting and succulent all the same. I held the tissue to the wound, and continued on with the rest of my leg. I moved quickly with the scissors in hand, making the gashes on my leg look almost pretty. I made intricate swirling designs wrapping around my thigh and calve, the red of my blood making the pattern more prominent. When there was no more room on my leg for any more lacerations, I wiped the blood from the scissors, and set them down on the table. I threw the tissue in the garbage, and covered it with other trash. I stood, and in one fluid motion was across the room. I looked at myself in the mirror, admiring my handiwork. No one, other than myself, had caused me to do this. I was the one who inflicted the pain upon myself, by no one else’s doing. This pain was all my own, and I was proud of that fact. Tonight, for the first time in my life, I was not hurt by anyone but myself. The only pain that I suffered on this night was pain that I gave to myself. Tonight I was in control. For the first time in four years, I will not cry myself to sleep. For the first time in my life, I will smile myself to sleep. My cheeks were already becoming sore from the chilling smile I could not seem to remove from my face. I sighed, and walked back to my bed, after taking one last look in the mirror at myself. I used to think that I was pretty, but now I realized that the only thing that could ever make me considerably pretty was the scars I knew I would have. These scars would say simply to the world, “Yeah, shit happens. It’s just a simple fucking fact of life. And, much to everyone’s disbelief, shit does happen to me. My life is not perfect; my scars prove it.” My scars would speak to world what I myself could not say: that I am not weak. I am stronger than anyone I know, and I can take the pain the universe deals out.
I crawled back into bed, throwing the covers back over me. I didn’t realize that my cuts had begun to bleed again. I didn’t realize that the cuts were much deeper than I thought. I didn’t realize that this was my last night… I didn’t realize that I had just killed myself. I didn’t realize until I looked down, and saw that my body was lying on the bed beside me. As I had cut, I bled out and died. It was my ghost that got up and looked in the mirror. No, my body was dead. I looked down at my still form, and smiled again. Not only did I have control over my pain, I had control over my death. Nobody could have surprised me now, because I was simply gone.
