I unlocked the door, pushing it open and letting out a strangled yawn as I stepped inside. Long ass day, and all I really wanted to do was go lie down and listen to music, possibly get granted some miracle and actually manage to take a nap, relax for a while so my head didn't explode.
But, lucky me, I had two tests tomorrow, a project due at the end of the week, and math homework on a subject I couldn't possibly understand less. Maybe if I paid attention in class instead of mentally singing I wouldn't have an issue, but, whatever, too late.
Shrugging my overloaded backpack onto the kitchen table, I walked to the fridge, hoping we actually had food that was quick, easy, and somewhat edible in the house. I was practically starving to death, due to lack of not being able to motivate myself out of bed until twenty minutes after my alarm startled me awake that morning, causing me to skip the first two meals of the day. To further my fantastic state, my head was also pounding from what was either stress or dehydration - I'd never really been sure what caused the frequent ailment.
Pulling open the fridge, I grabbed a bottle of Advil, aiming for two pills and frowning when half the fucking bottle spilled into my palm. I dumped almost all of them back, sticking the bottle on its shelf and beginning to search the chilled drawers as I swallowed three pain killers dry.
After finding nothing but stir fry from last week and raw ingredients that wouldn't constitute a meal taking less than an hour to compose in the fridge, I switched to the cabinets. Chex mix, seaweed, nuts, pretzels, soup crackers and uncooked pasta filled our main cupboard. Wonderful.
I sighed, resigning to grab a bag of plain pop chips hidden behind a box of grape nuts, slamming it closed and pulling a ginger ale our of the nearly empty case. Hopefully that would aid in dispelling my head ache sooner.
A quick search of the house determined that I was home alone. I was fairly positive that May was staying after school to work on some History project with her friends, mom was at work until after six, and dad... I actually had no idea where he was. He worked as a handy man/contractor, job best described as a guy who fixed things around the house but wouldn't build them himself. The man worked for himself, on his own schedule, and would be home whenever he felt like it. The later, the better, if you asked me.
Our last fight had been resolved long ago, weak apology from him and half hearted acceptance on my part ending the matter. I was seriously starting to doubt whether my father was ever remorseful for his actions - if someone feels bad about something, wouldn't the logical thing to do be not do it again? But I was sure that he'd flip out over some stupid mistake again in the next couple of weeks, and leave me having a mental breakdown on my own. The never-ending cycle: get pissed, yell at me, so sincerely apologize, repeat.
So it was easier to just avoid him, because, well, you can't shout at someone you never see. Anyways, half the time when I greeted him, dad asked me to do a chore or reprimanded me for fucking something up. An actual conversation from last week had consisted of me saying hello, and him replying that I hadn't locked the door after leaving earlier. That was fun.
I slung my backpack over one shoulder, balancing the now open soda can and bag of chips in my hand, slumping down the hall to my room. The sooner I got started on my work, the sooner I could pass out.
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Over five hours and one painfully awkward family dinner later, I was having a stare down with my History textbook on the floor of my room. Why I was on the floor, I had no idea. I'd just never really made it to the bed or my incredibly uncomfortable desk chair when initially starting earlier, and ended up spreading out all my shit on the ground with no intention or incentive to move it.
After half an hour of searching the internet and rereading my math notes, my homework had been muddled through. Half my science project was finished and I'd learned all about life cycle of stars, getting me close enough to being prepared for the exam tomorrow. My entire English essay analyzing whether or not Charlie was better off before or after his surgery in Flowers for Algernon was completed, and I'd even managed to shit out an introduction, which I was consistently horrible at writing.
Last on the list of things that needed to be finished that night was studying for the next day's History test - on what appeared to be half of America's entire background - before I could take a shower and get some much needed sleep. Obviously, that was going fabulous.
How did the King of England respond to the Declaration of Independence? read the review section at the end of the chapter I was studying in my textbook.
I groaned, shoving my eyes shut and frowning in concentration as I attempted to pry the answer out of my mind. "Fuck, I don't know," I muttered, flipping back through the pages in search of the solution.
I managed to spend twenty minutes scanning the full, mind numbingly boring chapter, without discovering a single shred of the fucking dead King's answer to the document. I am going to fail this test, I thought, turning back to the questions in hopes of finding out I had at least some of the knowledge necessary to not get kicked out of that class. I didn't.
There was exactly one question where the correct answer was easily answerable for me: who wrote the popular pamphlet, Common Sense? Thomas Paine, of course. I actually remembered that from eighth grade, for some imperceptible reason. Great, I could answer a singular question that had approximately a two percent change of being part of the exam. Fuck.
A combination of thoughts of failure that multiplied frantically, total exhaustion, and excessive stress had me breaking down a second later. My textbook ended up slammed against a wall as I swore and curled my knees into my chest, sweat pants crushing against my eyes.
I'm not smart enough for this, I'm so stupid. I can't do this.
"What the fuck is wrong with me?" I rasped, clueless as to why such a trivial issue had my sanity instantly collapsing. One test wasn't the end of the world - I knew that. I'd probably be the first trying to convince someone that grades weren't everything. So why did I care?
Really, I didn't. But the thoughts inspired to surface by those initial criticisms were discharging all of my insecurities and issues and they wouldn't stop.
Nothing is going right. I won't get into college. I don't even want to go to college, what the hell am I going to do with my life?
"Shut UP!" I exclaimed, hopelessly wishing that the words would cause the thoughts to cease and my mind to recompose itself. I hauled myself up, hands clutching my doorframe, pacing across the carpet and ripping at my hair.
Rubbing harshly at my eyes, swiping tears everywhere and sniffing out a cough, I searched out my iPod, vision too blinded to detect a sensible song as I punched shuffle and turned up the volume. Damnit came on, almost bringing a smile since I'd always loved that song. That lasted for less time than was tangible as my brain spun out of control.
One thing I'd always found relaxing above all else was listening to music. Not just playing it in the background, but really listening - dissecting the lyrics and inhaling the intakes of breath and counting the drum beat and picking out guitar notes. But my brain was determined to self destruct at the moment, and it settled on the guitar beat, appreciating Tom Delonsnge's skill for two seconds before I started thinking of how I'd never be that good.
Why the fuck even bother? No matter how hard I tried, I could never compare to my idols, it was useless. I should just fucking give up. I couldn't successfully play the one thing I cared about; I couldn't study for a fucking test in school without freaking out, what the fuck could I do?
And then my heart was speeding up and my breathing was breaking and my iPod was causing no relief as it thumped onto my bed while my body hit the floor. I collapsed with my head in my hands, tear soaked eyelashes splattering my cheeks and salt drenched fingers abusing my hair.
"Just breathe," I commanded myself, trying to think of those tactics you're taught in third grade to calm down. In... out... in... out...
But I didn't help and I was gasping hard and all I really wanted was someone to just give me a hug, assure me that I was worth something, and tell me that everything would be alright. But I had nobody, and I was so sad and lonely and tired and overwhelmed and confused, because I had no idea what was happening, or why, and I didn't know what to do.
So my poison mind flipped to the cuts on my arm, and how they'd just made everything better.
My door slammed upon and I squinted around the hall, taking in that nobody was there to see me. I didn't know where the fuck my family was and hadn't really talked to them all day anyways, because they didn't care what was going on with me, nobody cared, and I couldn't stop thinking like that.
A minute that I didn't even remember later, my hands were splayed out over the granite counters of our bathroom, bloodshot eyes glaring in the mirror. My hair was literally sticking up in every direction that I could possibly imagine, normally perfectly styled over my forehead fringe shoved back into the air, skin looking like some amateur artist had spilled red watercolor in random splotches over it, watery eyes circled in pink. I looked like shit, and I felt like shit, and my chest was heaving, and my head was beating harder than my heart, and my eyes were burning as I hunched in that locked room.
This is why I don't have anybody. I'm alone and I'm ugly and that's never going to change.
"Fucking Christ, stop it!" I cried, stumbling back into the towel rack behind me, wincing as the metal scraped my back. I grasped at the wall to steady myself, vision swimming and legs shaking as I stumbled across the room.
Falling onto the toilet, I wrenched open the drawer nearest to me, hands fumbling past packs of toothbrushes and band aids in an unorganized disarray, eventually managing to curl around a pack of razorblades.
And then my sweats were around my knees and my boxers were half off and there were tears dripping onto my exposed hip. It was sick, yet I'd thought about it. Where I could hurt myself, where nobody would ever have to know. What better place than somewhere always covered by the most basic piece of clothing?
I was looking at the metal of metal glinting between my fingers, curious about just how sharp razors were. I'd cut myself shaving more times than I could even come close to keeping track of anymore. Who knew, though?
So I slid the razor I'd ripped out of its pack across my thumb, grimacing at the pain but smirking at the blood. It took me a second to realize that razor cuts bleed a fucking lot, and then there was a blood stained piece of toilet paper on the counter next to me along with a band aid wrapper, maimed finger disabling my hand. In conclusion, really fucking sharp.
My thumb stung, and it felt so fucking good, but I was still so fucking bad and nothing was helping. I was crying, gulping air like a fish out of water, my mind was insulting itself, thoughts killing it and I was getting so desperate to calm down that I was turning to last resorts.
I yanked my boxers down, inhaling sharply as I pressed the blade against my protruding right hip bone. A thought fleeted through my head of, no, don't do it, this is wrong.
But I didn't care. It would help me. I would feel better. I didn't think it was wrong, and who else would care?
So I wiped my eyes to clear the obstruction, rubbing water off my face, stubble scratching against my skin. And I pushed down the razor, slicing straight across my hipbone, just low enough to be under the band of my boxers.
I didn't understand why, and there were quite a lot of things that I didn't understand about myself by that point, but the sight of the blood, the red slash and the blaring pain, had my breathing fixing itself and my shaking slowing and my eyes clearing.
I knew there were a lot of reasons why people hurt themselves. Some did it because they thought they deserved it. I didn't. I believed I was a good enough person to merit happiness.
Some did it because the pain offered an escape. I didn't. My thoughts were too overactive and I would never find anything to completely make them stop.
Some did it because they were numb and needed to feel something. I didn't. I felt far too much.
I did it because I liked it. Plain and simple. The pain felt good. The blood was satisfying. The cuts were beautiful. And that is why I slit my skin once again, shoulders slumping and gasps evening out as I pierced my newly flawed flesh with the razor, slashing slanted below the first. The skin was stretched tight across my hips, eyes tearing in pain as I broke it with that fucking evil metal. But the waterworks from personal despisal were slowing.
I found that strange: self harm eradicated self hate.
My body was stilled and my throat was sore, dry eyes pained and brain beating against my skull. The after affects of sobbing that I had become far too familiar with. And while I still physically felt like utter crap, at least my thoughts were composed.
But there still that hateful voice stabbing at the back of my mind, and I needed it to shut the fuck up so I could achieve some rest, so I ignored the blood dripping over my thigh and eyed the blade that still managed to be sparkling clean.
The edge was so thin, and meant for such an innocent purpose, but it could so many terrible things. Already had.
What were three cuts versus two? There would be no harm in another. It wouldn't make a difference.
With that thought, I flicked my hair out of my eyes, pushing as hard as I could without screaming into my hip, cutting a dash across it. I watched with intent eyes as the blood filled the slit, longer yet shallower than the others. It spilled over the edge, sliding down to combine with the singular stream from the first cut, causing me to yank my pants further down in alarm as the mixed blood slashed down my leg and threatened to stain them.
Together, they bled a good three or four inches. The second cut tipped red onto my hip on either side, each line drawing hardly an inch. It was dark, it was horrible, and my hip hurt so bad and everything hurt, but it was perfect.
Sighing freakishly happily, I stared at the blood as it began to dry, determining I should get back to my room before someone assumed I was dying in there. Or, the truth, which would probably be worse.
Soon, I had tissues pressed against my hip in hopes that the cuts weren't deep enough to demand bandages; instead healing enough to remain unexposed the next day overnight. I was right, though band aids would have been better, considering that I'd wake up with blood drying the cuts to my boxers. Prying them off would not only hurt like hell, but cause the cuts to reopen.
I threw the bloody paper in the toilet, flushing it and pulling up my pants, flipping the sink on and letting the water wash nothing away as I wiped off my eyes and flattened my hair.
Pushing open the door, I stepped cautiously into the hallway, gulping as my mom appeared out of nowhere and walked towards the kitchen. Clicking off the bathroom light, I plastered a fake smile over my lips as she slowed.
"Honey, are you ok?" she questioned, concerned eyes glancing at me over her glasses. I was thankful the lights were dim and she couldn't clearly see my eyes, or I'd have a lot more explaining to do. I'd probably manage to end up completely fucked.
"Yeah, just tired." I lied, grinning weakly and fingering my hair, trying to sidestep her back to the relative safety of my room.
She nodded in supposed understanding, offering, "Alright, go to sleep early tonight, yeah?"
I nodded quickly, ducking my head and half sprinting down the hall as she continued on her way. I managed to follow my mom's advice once reaching my room, locking the door behind me, switching on my despised alarm clock and falling under the covers, dead exhausted.
The lies were piling on along with my issues, and I was quickly turning to the worst possible solutions. But I didn't know what else to do, so, at the moment, I did all I could to make myself feel some semblance of happiness. At least in sleep, my head was silent.
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This is very long a fucked up and that's all I really have to say about this chapter. But I need your guys' help, I need you to tell me your favorite unpopular Blink songs. Like, ones that you really love that no one else seems to care about, it'll make sense in a couple chapters! Also, yesterday was my birthday, and I would love comments for presents, pretty please? I love you all <3
xoxo
Rose