Insecure |Phan|

Chapter 1

Trigger Warning//: Self-harming, A bit of suicidal thoughts    

      Wouldn't it be nice, to have a father that doesn't hate your guts? Wouldn't it be nice if Mom wasn't dead, and if  we could have been a normal family if she were still here today? It would be a typical weekday, and I would come home from school, and she and Dad would be sitting on the couch, watching one of those lame ass soap operas that they always used to together, and they would ask me how school went. 

         And I would let out a small mutter that sounded like "Good." and walk into my room, not wanting to talk to them, just like a kid does to their parents, only to have her come into my room a few minutes later to pester me about how I should talk to them more, and then we would have a silly fight over how to talk to parents. And then Dad would come in and calm Mom down, pecking her lips until she would let out a small smile, agreeing she was overreacting and then make something like a tray of cookies as a "sorry" for me, and I would grin and wrap my lanky arms around her neck, burying my face in her slightly frayed hair, which still holds a comforting scent. 

        And then Dad would walk in, smiling to himself at the sight, and slowly try to walk away, too embarrassed to join in on the hug at the price of his "manliness", but after a lot of persistent  teasing and laughter from both Mom and I, he would give in and wrap his strong arms around the both of us.

         And we would stay like that for a moment, all of us savoring the moment while not uttering a word, yet wishing we could keep slipping seconds like this forever.

      Yeah, that sure would be fucking incredible. But life isn't fair, and people aren't perfect. I sigh as sharp tears started pricking my eyes once more. The most pathetic part was that I didn't even do anything about it. I just lie there in my position, unmoving, lying on my back on my bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. I felt the warm tears roll down my cheeks and subconsciously let out a sob. The built up emotion seemed to burst through me as I let out layers of muffled cries and choked up sobs, hating myself for being so emotionally weak and pathetic. 

       I turned my face into the worn out pillow stained with old tear stains and cried out my unwanted feelings and emotions, a few frustrated screams mixed in with them. I must have forgotten that Dad was home, because from the living room I heard the patter of footsteps growing louder as they finally reached a torturous end in front of my door.

     The wooden door with chipping white paint almost seemed to come to life itself as it flew open and left the tall outline of a figure at the entrance. I braced myself for the screaming that was about to ensue.

      "DANIEL, WOULD YOU STOP BEING A STUPID PIECE OF SHIT AND ACTUALLY DO SOMETHING WITH YOUR LIFE? ALL FUCKING DAY, I SEE YOU WALLOWING IN YOUR SELF PITY. GROW A PAIR, WOULD YA? BE FUCKING USEFUL, AND STOP CRYING LIKE A FUCKING FAGGOT. OH WAIT, I FORGOT, YOU ARE ONE." He let out a scoff, and with a wicked smirk, left my room, purposely closing the door with a loud slam.

       I winced at the harsh words and let out a shaky sigh. My eyes remained glued to the ceiling, as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. The words, they were all true, weren't they? So then, why did they hurt so much? 

      I turned my head slightly to look at the half-broken clock on my bedside table. 10:00 pm. It wasn't that late, and so I turned my focus onto something else. It taunted me, even as I stared at it through my tear-filled eyes. 

    No Dan, you don't need it.

     But I do.

      You don't need it. You can ma-

       Yes I do. I'm a pathetic freak.

        There are other wa-

          I deserve it. Let me get what I deserve.

            You don't.

              I deserve to di-

     I bolted up from my position of lying on my bed, now sitting on the edge of the bed, grasping my head with both of my hands, elbows propped up on my thighs. "SHUT UP! Just- shut up." I screamed, clenching my fists in my hair, trying to put an end to the parallel voices spiraling in my mind, contradicting each other and creating nothing but a mess of what I am now. 

     Getting on my feet, my hand traced along the table until I found what I was searching for, the texture of it sending chills through my body, yet bringing back flooding memories and repressed emotions. My lips parted as they let out a shaky breath, and I gently close the bathroom door and slide down it until I feel myself back on the cold, tiled bathroom floor which haunted me with horrible memories. 

     I toyed with it in my fingers for a while, just admiring its sick beauty. What a wonderful thing, so small, and so thin, yet it takes away all the pain with one movement. At a certain angle, it reflected off such a bright beam of light from the overhead bathroom light. It caused me to flinch and squint my eyes a little, deciding it was time for me to stop toying around with it.

     I brought it to my scabbed wrist littered with previous gashes and scars, and at the contact of the cold bas against my skin, I shivered. I made the first one, slicing through the now red skin, watching the red liquid come dripping out, trickling down my wrist and sending a wonderful stinging sensation of pain that I had missed so much.  

     I made another one, and another, and another, until my entire right arm was covered in the beautiful red liquid that painted upon my wrist as if it were a canvas. The jolts of pain weren't subsiding, and instead grew like a raging rainstorm on a chilly September evening. My eyes closed tightly, as if that would help anything. If I had the energy, I would've scoffed at myself.

     The pain was starting to overtake me, again. Everything was starting to become a blurry image, similar to a photograph, hurriedly taken. The darkness was rushing in, making the walls around me darker and darker. 

     Please, take me away. Take me away to somewhere happy, where everything will be alright, and I can remember what it feels like to smile again. Please.

      As my thoughts circled in my mind, I look down to my wrist, bleeding and sliced with new marks. I felt something wet drop down on it, and though I couldn't see much through the ever-growing darkness, it seemed to be a drop of water, much like a tear. Was I crying again?

Wow, I didn't even notice.