Tritone

Chapter 12: Secco

The first time I can remember wanting to kill myself was in elementary school. Even yet, I can't pinpoint when exactly I first encountered the thought. I can bet that I wondered what it would have been like if I were gone, even if I was just a child, and that way more people cared about me then. Back then, I probably believed that those thoughts wouldn't last. I thought it would have just been a phase that would blow over, that I would be okay within a week or so.
As the months went by, regardless of the circumstances, I came to realize I wouldn't be okay.
I believe the reason I came to believe I was worthless was because of my family. Time and time again, they insulted me and teased me. They pushed me to limits I could no longer withstand, and with that came the inevitable feeling that I had to die.
I planned on shooting myself. I was eleven years old.
From there, I never really recovered. I became more and more miserable and lost until I finally reached the point I'm at now. 
The road to this point isn't laid out on a map. It doesn't have checkpoints to lead me to here. It doesn't even have a name, if you ask me. Yet, here I am, running down this unnamed road as if my life depends on it. I simply wish that, while I run down this road aimlessly, there's a traffic conductor to help me get to the end of it.
It's always very disconcerting to think about this road. If I go back to where it started, I'd be caught in a dead end. I don't know if I can keep moving down its rough terrain for what's at the end. I don't know if this road simply drops off or leads somewhere new.
I guess all I have to do is keep moving, even if I get caught in the overgrowing underbrush. I, honestly, hope it leads to the edge of the earth and leave me no choice but to jump.

I sit on the closed seat of the toilet, inspecting my arm--the bruising has mostly faded, but blood began soaking through the upper layer of bandages. I slowly remove the linen, a lump rising in my throat as I wildly imagine what the wounds could look like.

As the strip falls to the floor, it reveals the cuts I've made. They look... okay. A bit of dried blood is caked on my skin.
I bend my elbow slightly, observing the way they move, but it forces me to recall the pain of honestly harming myself. I flinch as the sting of it rises through my arm, causing me to drop everything I was holding to the tile. I hold still for merely a moment and close my eyes, waiting for the pain to pass by, and shut my eyes. A sigh rushes through my nose, releasing a bit of tension from my body.
I take a washcloth and clear the blood from my skin, but I tighten my muscles as a few drops trickle into my wounds.
The wounds look clean and organized. I can picture them when I don't have to cover them, when they'll eventually become scars. I once heard a saying that every scar tells a story. Unfortunately, I'm not quite a fan of whatever this story has to offer.

I dry it and wrap it tautly, the wounds becoming completely unnoticeable. I shrug, satisfied with my handiwork, and wander out of the bathroom. I take a seat at the computer and force myself to work. I pound away at the keys, writing a research paper for English class. How pleasant.
However, I'm suddenly scared by the front door opening, and I can immediately tell it's my father by the sound of his lunch bag hitting the floor, as it does every time he walks in.

"Chief," he shouts out once he hears me typing, "You're going to that therapist in about two hours."
I sigh--probably not loud enough to hear, and then grumble, "I have an English paper to do."
"Well, I already scheduled it, so get ready to leave."
I get up and stomp into my room, throwing a random set of clothes to wear.
I know that I should be taking this more seriously than I am. I get that--therapy is helpful for a lot of people. Too bad I'm not one of those people.
After I change, I sit in my bed, not willing to leave. I stare at the door, wishing I could lock it, but there's no lock on the door.
"Elise?" he knocks, then snaps, "Are you coming?"
I stand slowly, yanking open the jammed door, and stalk past him.
"Let's go," I snap, then whisper under my breath, "The faster you move, the less of my time you're wasting."

I've wanted to harm myself for as long as I could remember. I always wanted to feel the blade dig into my skin and embrace the pain of it. I always pictured scars on my arm, and I suppose I even desired them. Now, they're there for everyone to see.
I got what I wanted, but now I don't know what I want anymore.
If I keep going on like this, I know that I'll be dead before the end of the school year. While that would end the burden on others, I know that I'm too much of a coward to honestly end my life. How shocking, I know, but what can I say? I'm a coward. That's all there is to it.

As we enter the office, my father waits at the window to pay. I, impatient and angry, sit in a nearby chair and sulk. No matter how awful this place is, the chairs are pretty comfy.
As I skim through a terrible, week-old magazine, I notice another band member--a baritone player, actually--enter the lobby. She glances at me, then returns to whatever she was doing just a second before.
After a minute or two, I'm summoned back by the therapist.
Maybe if I just died right now, I wouldn't have to go!
However, I saunter back and sit down in one of the chairs, watching as she digs through her file.
"So, you're back," she states, digging through the papers in the manila folder, "How've you been?"
"I was fine," I moan, "but then I showed up here."
"Aw, what's that supposed to mean?"
"I hate it and it doesn't provide anything beneficial to me."
"Just give it a chance," she suggests.
"I already did, and I hate it."

Fortunately, after the appointment, my father scheduled another appointment next week, despite my protests.
I return home and immediately hide in my room, shoving a pile of dirty clothes in front of the door so it can't be opened, and curl in bed under four blankets. I contemplate whether or not I should message Ilya, but I just let it go. If he wants to talk to me, he'd do it, so I don't think I want to pester him.
I notice, once I lie down, that the sound of crumbling paper can be heard under my pillow. My hand sneaks towards the sound, and I grip a small notebook left there. I slide it out from underneath the pillow and flip through it. Inside it are just a few pages, every one of them filled with short suicide notes. I read through every single one of them, feeling even lower than I did before.
I close the notebook and tuck it back under the pillow. I lie down, curling up under the covers, but even that doesn't stop me from shivering.