Victoria
I had never actually used my blades until that night.
My dad had drank even more than my mom, and they had been screaming at each other for the past two hours. It started in the living room, over something as trivial as the TV remote, then the kitchen, and the bathroom, and the yard, and so on. They were currently in Jesse’s old room, screaming at each other over his promises to call DCF if they didn't get their acts together and tearing apart posters from his walls.
I pulled the CD from my shelf, the destination and name etched permanently into my head. There were eleven or so blades inside, all new and unused. Picking one at random, wary of my fingertips, I took one out.
I don't really know what compelled me to use that blade on myself. My parents were fighting, yeah, but why was my head telling me to cut?
I did it, anyway. I rolled my pajama bottoms above my knee, as far as they would go. The first swipe was quick and hesitant.
Soon, one turned into two, two into three, three into six. I stopped counting and lost myself. I wasn't thinking about anything except for the marks. In an odd way, it was comforting and exhilarating.
My parents never walked in, and they never stopped screaming. Eventually, I wiped the blades clean and put them back into the CD case. I slipped the CD case onto the shelf and dabbed at my leg with a wad of toilet paper.
As I fell asleep that night, the stinging on my right thigh and the rushing in my veins brought me the best sleep that I'd had all week. Even the screaming couldn't keep me up.