As the thin line of scarlet slowly envelopes my wrist, I hear someone say, "Well done." I close my eyes, drop the razor blade, and hear the echoing sound of blood dripping to the floor.
"She's getting sleepy."
"Make it deeper."
"We want more blood!"
"We want you."
The bedroom door flings open as a figure yells, "Oh, my God! What have you done?"
With silent eyes, I begin to moan as I'm being elevated.
"You got her? Tighten the bandage. Okay. Let's go."
Red lights and a maddening screeching sound alert me that I'm not going to heaven. I hear cheering together with crying.
Three days ago my life meant nothing to me. Our parents were never truthful with their children and my siblings were much older than I. We weren't exactly the Brady Bunch.
Every day I was being told that I'd be better off dead. Each time the advice I'd hear seemed logical. My nights were restless and the negativity being fed to me assured me that there was no hope for a teenager like me.
"Good morning. How are you feeling today?" asks a nurse.
I didn't want to talk to anyone. I was so mad that they kept me here when I had the opportunity to be somewhere else.
"Not speaking today? Well, maybe you'll speak to someone waiting outside to see you." The nurse leaves as a young girl enters, uninvited. She sits.
"Hi. I'm Jenny. I see we have something in common."
She holds up her wrists. I only slashed one; she slashed both.
Jenny looks out the window, whispers softly, "Only you can make them go away."
Astounded, I say, "They talk to you, too?" She nods her head yes.
Silence fills the room, and then Jenny gets up. Before leaving, she says, "At first they'll torment you because they want you. Tell them to go away, often, and then they'll be gone." She closes the door behind her.
As weeks go by, I keep telling the voices to go away. Then one day, they were gone. That was fifty years ago, not knowing that someone I love very much will be experiencing the voices, too.
After visiting our granddaughter in the mental health facility, I became dismayed by what I saw on her arms and legs. She was a cutter. She had made a cut so deep, that the scar will be a lasting reminder of the voices that harmed her.
My parents withheld the truth, but I did not. I must tell my granddaughter the truth about me.
When released from the facility, I gave her all my attention. She spoke of the voices and I told her how I made them disappear forever.
A year later, we're both happy and joyful for being alive. We're not special people; life's problems exist for everyone. Planting positiveness in one's life is the root that will branch off to others you love. Love is the answer.
