" pain is the only thing that makes me feel alive."
Their hurtful, demeaning words made its own twisted way into my mind, and I could just imagine them saying it over and over again. I could always remember the flashbacks of my dreadful past every single day. In my nightmares, it gradually grew louder and louder until I couldn't handle the agonising, throbbing pain in my head. The ache in my heart only grew as I remembered that it was the truth. Numbness tingled through my body, and I let the pain take me away from my shattered reality.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Worthless.
Ugly.
Fat.
I was all that wasn't I? I couldn't exactly deny it; it was all true, in my mind. They've said it so much to the point that I act like I don't care, and then I remember the words they cut me with, and there it goes again. Their words, like sharp knives, pierced through my heart with every insult that they made up. The demons flitted around, dark and brooding, and my body moved to its own accord as something unknown controlled my movements.
Those thoughts.
I've done it many times, and although I know it's wrong, I couldn't stop. It is like a drug addiction. Once you start, you can't stop. Their words, once again, rang in my head, as I brought the sharp object to my skin. The stinging pain was a relief to mine. Once again, the voices rang in my mind, reminding me of the memories that I couldn't escape.
I deserve this. Worthless, pathetic and weak. Who would ever want me? Care for me?
With that, I made the first, stinging cut, quickly and gracefully. A presence made itself known as it controlled everything I did. This is the first time I've cut since I escaped, and I know that it's wrong, but I can't stop. It's the only form of relief I have from the voices in my head. Even then, they couldn't leave me alone. They let me succumb to the darkness as the demon grew so enormously that it was impossible to eliminate.
At this point, I believed that no one would want me, and I deserve to be hurt, because I've hurt so many other people. I hurt the people around me, and so, I deserve to feel the pain. I felt the stinging pain from the cut as a small trickle of blood dripped from the orifice in my skin. However, I didn't mind it. I liked the pain, I liked the way the blood poured out of the wounds. Hell, I loved it.
No matter how preposterous and peculiar it may seem to some, it was my escape. I made another, followed by another, and another. Lines of blood trickled down my arm, as I ignored the liquid dripping on the pristine white bathroom tiles. This, the pain I felt, brought me relief. You may think I'm insane for doing this, but it is what it is. The sting of the razor against my skin only brought me a tranquillising feeling that I loved.
A few minutes passed, and I looked at the line of cuts that were littered across my arm, that had brought me relief and satisfaction. A tear leaked from the corner of my eye, dripping on my already bloody arm, making the tingling sensation burn as if it was set on fire. I liked it, however, and wanted to bring more harm to myself. I wanted to feel the pain, willingly.
The cabinet was still open, and I saw a bottle of rubbing alcohol, still intact, although it was only half full. I went over to the sink, and poured a little bit of the alcohol onto the cuts, fiendishly liking the way it felt, the irritation of the cuts burning painfully. The lines went horizontally across the tender skin of my wrists, once again covering the other cicatrix that already stained my arm.
I smiled, although I knew, deep down, that this twisted way of relief was wrong. I had no parents, no friends, no one who cares about me. Of course, sometimes I craved for the love from someone, because how could someone live in a world full of self hatred and fear? The shadows surrounded everything else, shrouding the once white tiles, into one that shone with darkness.
Sometimes, we're all addicted to something that takes the pain away, although we know it is not right. To me, my whole life is unavailing, because what do I have left to live for? It feels like I'm drowning, and everyone else is breathing, and they think that I do, too. But I don't. I don't even feel anything anymore; my life a disappointing truth.
Nothing good ever happens in my life, and my life is not worth living anymore. I'm sorry if I upset you, mom and dad, because I don't know how much longer I can stand this miserable life. Even though I'm always alone, always left in the dark, every time when I say,"I'm okay," I can't help but want someone to hug me tight, look me in the eyes, and say,"I know you're not." But people don't do that. They don't care. They just don't.
Pain changes people, like me, who get tired of all their shit eventually, but have to carry on. At some point in our life, we all feel down, we feel like we have that burden on our shoulders that we can't shake off. I always felt that way. From a young age, I knew I didn't fit in, I wasn't normal. There was always a little whisper in the back of my mind, saying something that I didn't understand.
When the abuse started, suddenly, I felt like I couldn't control the thoughts in my head. Voices in my head wouldn't stop talking, those thoughts invading my brain, my mind, infiltrating everything else.
I lost every bit of self control I had.
During the late nights, I would be wide awake, unable to fall asleep. Every time I tried, the voices in my head would start taunting me, with those harsh, mordacious words. It was either laying in the bed, thinking about all the mistakes I made, about the insecurities I had, about all my flaws, or shivering at the corner of the room, in the agonising figment of the imagination, that we call panic attacks.
I was rarely ever given any food, but every time I saw the amount of weight I had put on, the sickly pieces of fat that stuck out of my body, like it wanted to tease me, tell me that I was too fat, that I needed to lose my weight. My pack never failed to make up rebellious acts of disparagement, meant to bring down my self-esteem.
I would stay up all night, regurgitating up all the food in my stomach. I could remember the pain of the food leaving my body. My throat burned, as if laced with a line of acid, and I remember the sorrow I felt, hugging my knees to my chest, sobbing, telling myself in my head,'You need this. You need to lose weight. You're too fat. Do it for the gap between your thighs. Do it for that perfectly flat stomach. Beauty is measured in how you look, so do it. Maybe they wouldn't hate me as much if I was skinny, if I was considered beautiful.'
I looked at the girl in the mirror, once again, and noticed how hollow her cheekbones were, how her collarbones were perfectly visible, but she hated the number on the scale. I hated the number on the scale, I hated that sinking feeling every time someone called me names, but I can't help it. The voices in my head completely take over all my thoughts, so I'm wired to think that way. Shadows cackled in sinister laughter, in demonic smiles that made the hairs on my arm stand up.
A knock on the door caught my attention again, and I cursed quietly, silently hoping I locked the door. Unfortunately for me, luck is never on my side, and the doorknob twisted slowly.
Luckily, there were some bandages on the shelf, and I quickly grabbed them, wrapping my arm in the bandage. I threw the used razor away, and kicked the dustbin under the bathroom counter to hide any traces of what I had been doing. The rubbing alcohol was placed back in the cabinet, and I hid my arm behind my back, so whoever it was wouldn't see it.
My mate's husky voice broke the silence, as he walked into the bathroom and asked,"What happened? I could smell blood."
Hiding my arm further behind my back, I muttered,"Nothing. Nothing is wrong." That annoyingly stoic expression crossed his face once again as silence took over the bathroom. "Alright,"he said, leaving the room, and I could hear the smack of the door closing. His attitude was one that irritated me at most. It was difficult to try and decipher the unknown emotion in his eyes. Just as I exited the bathroom, I noticed the Alpha sitting on the bed in the room.
In shock, he gave me a look, tauntingly saying," You can't escape explaining this." I sat next to him as I held out my arm. I sighed, as he opened the bandage, and winced when I saw the pink, puckered cuts that stuck out of my skin abnormally. Slowly, I cleaned the wound, grimacing when I did so, then wrapped it up again. The Alpha looked deep in thought, as his stone-faced expression returned, slamming the door on his way out.
Woah...okay. Intense. The only word I could use to describe the Alpha was...that he was intense. Unravelling his thoughts were a puzzle of it's own, much like a maze with many dead ends. Mysterious. But I could tell I understood something from his expressions. He was battling someone, no, something inside. I could see it in his eyes.
I laid down on the soft, comfortable bed. With nothing else to do, and still unable to fall asleep, I went to the window, looking out at the peaceful night that looked over the dark, gloomy forest. I couldn't help but wonder about my mate again. It was hard not to think about him. Pushing the thoughts away was next to impossible.
I mean, finding your mate is supposed to be a good thing, but fate loves playing twisted games with love.
Who am I kidding? I don't even think I'm worthy of anything. How can someone, be such a failure, that everyone around him or her, would develop a feeling of hatred for that person? Oh well, I can easily do that, apparently. Lost in my thoughts, my eyelids started to droop, and my eyes fluttered to a close, although I know this won't last very long.
**********
The punches and kicks. Again and again. The same thing I had to deal with every day.
All those kids in school, thinking that they're the best, who loved picking on people like me. The weak and the defenceless. Their malicious smiles seemed almost ineradicable, like their thirst for my pain.
They knew that I couldn't fight back, wouldn't dare to, and they used that as their advantage.
Every day, I'd be humiliated in front of the whole school, and they had always loved to call me names as I ran down the hallway, trying to prevent the tears from slipping out.
Eventually, I learnt not to care what they thought of me, because I could care less, but the internal voice in me begged to differ.
I always tried to ignore what they thought of me, but I always felt compelled to care about it at the same time, because if I didn't, there would be the voice, appearing again, saying,'If you don't do this, you'll die. What they think of you matters.' And the only thing that made me feel alive, is pain.
**********
note
another chapter is up! i will try to finish up to chapter ten by the end of this week...but I have my report card day on saturday and I am dreading it so bad. :'(
side note; this is important
this book will focus mainly on the thoughts and feelings of the character, revolving around the plot. only later on will i elaborate on their relationship aspect, but not right now.
in some of my books, the characters may have disorders, or mental illnesses, but this does not mean I'm romanticizing mental illnesses and disorders. The reason why I add these type of details to a character's personality is because I want to spread awareness of these type of things. i actually want to write this to spread awareness for suicide.
i want to help people find their light in the dark, help them chase down the monsters.
people have to understand, that having a mental illness is not fun, or cool. it is a life long battle, that most people give up. i want people to realize these situations could happen in real life, to your family members, or friends, but that doesn't mean there's no chance of recovery.
in my books, they may go through struggles, but i also want to promote the fact that there is always hope. no matter what you think, of yourself, there is always a chance of recovery. i want to show people that it might be difficult, but there is always a chance. to the ones out there that feel hopeless, know that there are always people that actually care. be it your family, your best friend, whoever it may be, there's always someone that cares. :)
in my opinion, i think that the society's way of twisting the definition of beautiful, or perfect, can change the mindset of many. it's terrible when people wave off these kinds of things, when it's actually really serious. for example, victims of anorexia nervosa have to go through this their whole life, it won't just come and go.
p.s. i have never experienced this (honestly) , and everything in my books are completely fictional. i watch a lot of short films, (if you have any, please recommend lol) most of them about the pursuit of perfection, and they inspire me to write about things that have to be known and understood from that person's perspective.
i am so sorry for that extremely long rant, but i've actually met people like that, who don't care about the serious problems of the world. they think it's a joke. and that disgusts me. but it's not.
please vote, comment and share! thanks so much, if you're still reading!
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