At night the house is still and cold, the only movement is me and the dogs. I sit in my bed, TV on mute. The lights flash as I sit in my bed as still and cold as the house. A wave of depression comes over me and makes me sick. The only way to get it to go away is my blade, I reach between my bed and the wall and pull out my rag with my blade in it. I sit and admire it for what seems to be an eternity, but in reality I was building tension. The only thing that will ever love me is this blade, and I can't help but love it back. I place it to my wrist, I inhale and slide it effortlessly over a previously fresh cut. I feel a rush of adrenaline through my veins, I exhale. I look at the blood rush out in perfectly round bubble. I clean it with the rag, and place it to my wrist again, I inhale and slide slowly to feel the pain rush out, exhale. My last one is a deep one, I place the silver metal to my plaster pale skin and inhale, I press down and slide slowly in one smooth like, but no blood. I wrap my wrist with the rag and curl up in my corner. I look to the side at the mirror on my wall. What have I become, who am I? I used to be happy, now all that makes me happy is this time of night. I'm sick.
YOU ARE READING
Because Of Him
Teen FictionAs a young girl she was only happy. Not a care in the world or insecurity to worry about. She was a bigger girl and was teased when she reached 3rd grade. She cried her tears to her mom, but as she got older she cried them to herself. Alone in the d...
