TRIGGER WARNING FOR SELF HARM
I woke up this morning, feeling unhappy. Although, I'm not sure why. What's there to be unhappy about? Cause I can't think of anything. I shrugged the feeling off, as I reassured myself that this is a normal thing for me, to often feel unhappy, especially about waking up. Because I do feel sad a lot, without even a reason. I pushed all sad thoughts aside and walled in the direction of my closet, grabbing a black off the shoulder shirt, and grey shorts, I walked into the bathroom and brushed my matted h/l h/c hair. I pulled it into a high ponytail, and looked in the mirror. I frowned unintentionally and slammed my fist against the counter in frustration as I looked away from the mirror, my frustration turning to shame as I thought of how pretty Bev had always been compared to me. I don't know why she's so much prettier than me. She kind of just...is. I've always thought so, and it seems like my opinion on that topic, isn't changing anytime soon. I glanced back up at my reflection, instantly becoming more and more sad. The insults swimming around my brain, yelling, screaming at me as I stared at my reflection, feeling rejected by myself.
The more I stared, the more I thought. About everything. And I felt worse as the though of my old school came crashing into my thoughts, stomping through my mind as I though of what it was like back in Canada. My frown deepened as well as my mood. I groaned and tore my eyes away from my reflection, my own mind once again, turning against me.
And at that moment all I could think about was blood, blood, and more blood. My own. My mind was telling me to spill it. All of it. All over the floor. Telling me I deserved it. Telling me every bad thing anyone had ever told me. Anything I had ever told myself. By the time I reached my room I was tearing up at how my mind was attacking me. And I thought about how this was exactly like before I moved here. And a little after that too. It had taken me about a year for me getting rid of my thoughts, that were weighing me down, getting rid of my depression, and most importantly, stopping myself from self harming. It seemed as though I was about to relapse. But I don't know why. I just woke up, and....I felt like this again. My therapist told me this happens, rarely, but it happens. I haven't talked to her, in three years. And o don't want to ever again. But my thoughts, the bad ones, they seem to have found a damaged part of me to let them back in. And I sat on bed. Staring at the floor below me. And I thought. About what was happening in my head. How I wanted it to stop. And then I had a new idea. What if they came back. My bad thoughts. Because my heart is in distress? What if these awful feelings, are just telling me, I need to relapse, to feel better again. To feel one hundred percent better?
Because I never felt completely better. Even my therapist told me I might never feel completely better, or it might take a lot of time. But, what if now my mind is telling me that every broken part of me, is ready to feel better? But what if I want to relapse? What if this is just telling me, how much I miss the feeling, of dragging that blade across my wrist, letting the blood flow free, letting go of my stress and every bad thought, because what if I miss it? I mean, I do miss it. Because after you stop self harming, you feel like somethings been lost, after a while that goes away. But sometimes you remember, and do miss it, I've missed it before at random times, things trigger it. Like sketchy strangers walking by, or someone making jokes about self harm or suicide. Because they don't know that I felt like that. Like I feel like that right now. And so, I thought. This could be good. Because I have always believed, that self harming isn't bad. And that I have the right to do it. It's my body. And if it's helping relieve stress...how bad can it really be?
But...where did I stash my blades after I stopped self harming? I think, it was buried in a box that I put on the top shelf in my closet. I grabbed my chair from my desk and stood on it, so I could see over the top shelf in my closet, I scanned for the box and my eyes settled on it immediately. I put all my sad drawings in there with my sharp items that I used to....self harm...with. I grabbed it eagerly. Cutting is like a drug. Easy to get attached to, hard to quit. And even easier to get addicted again. Because when you start self harming, you start enjoying the look of it. The look of every droplet of blood that for,s on the fresh wound. And you want more. You start wanting pain. So you look for it. You start burning yourself. Giving yourself bruises. Hurting yourself in any way, just to feel a little better.
I hoped off tue chair and placed it back at the desk impatiently. I locked my door and sat on my bed. Suddenly I started to cry, hysterically. I was almost having a fit. A minute later I was inhaling and exhaling deeply, it had been so long since I had thought about cutting, I can't believe that I'm sitting here, once again telling myself it's not wrong to cut. Because like I said. I've never thought it was bad. Because it's not. But it is to other people. That's why I stopped. I was tired of people telling me it was bad, judging me. Giving weird looks if they happened to see past the 17 bracelets I always wear on each of my wrists, to cover the past scars. And soon to be new ones.
I took a deep breath and grabbed one of the sharp objects from the box. I took one that wasn't small, but wasn't my biggest one either. It was my favourite one, always had been, it was the sharpest and was shiny and pretty. I held it up slightly as my fingers traced over the edge of the blade. I pit it to my wrist and was ready to feel better. I just want these thoughts to leave, or don't I? I don't know anymore. But I want to. I have to. Ugh. Let's just do it. Who cares?
I roughly pressed the sharp edge to my wrist and slid it harshly, feeling a burning slash tingling sensation in my wrist, I looked down on it, letting out the breath I was clueless that I was holding until It escaped my mouth.
I watched the blood slowly rise from beneath my skin, as I did another, and another, and another. I continued, the satisfaction lingering as I looked glanced at the open cuts on my wrist. I felt better.
I looked at the blade and slashed once more, it was comforting, I know. That sounds awful. But it's true. It was comforting knowing my best tactic for stress relief, anger relief and anything relief was an option again.
I realized I had slashed and cut Until my whole wrist was covered in cuts, bleeding straight lines of torn skin as I watched in satisfaction as I felt my tears sting my eyes and threaten to fall, but I let them come. I'm so tired of holding everything in. Of trying so hard not to be angry at the world. But I am. And I'm tired of denying it. I'm tired of trying to convince myself that I'm not mad at my father for being mentally and emotionally abusive when he actually is home. Although, that's rare. Trying to convince myself that not every fibre in my body is mad at the world for being cruel, and harsh and downright evil. But the truth is. I'm mad all the time, constantly so angry with my mom, for doing nothing when I was being bullied back in Canada. Until she found out about my self harm by accident. She never listened when I told her it was out of hand. There's nothing more to it than being angry. But I'm not angry anymore.
Cutting always helped with my anger. And I don't know how it helped, it just sort of...did. So I'm not complaining.
My entire fore arm was pretty much covered in blood, but I had done a good job of not getting it on my sheets, or clothes. I ran to the bathroom after unlocking my door and swinging it open, desperate to make it there before someone came out of their rooms. It seems I had woken up earlier than even my mom. And that's rare. I shit and locked the bathroom door, turning on the tap and letting the water run down my arm, cleaning the wrist of blood, and making it sting. I turned off the tap when the blood splotches stopped forming from the ripped tissue of my skin. I frowned, but then my face went expressionless as I realized there was nothing to be ashamed of, so I put on a smile and walked back to my room. There was no need to add more bracelets, considering there were 17 of them. And 15 on the other. But I only did one wrist. I thought it would be easier for now.
I sat on my bed as I thought of something to do. I want candy. But I think I ate the rest of my stash a few days ago.
wAiT! I hAvE gOnE tHrEe DaYs WiThOuT CANDY!!! I put on my combat boots and ran out the door, grabbing my back pack and bike and rushing towards the nearest corner store.
Luckily this corner store had no cameras, and I think the owner is stupid but I'm not FOR SURE on that yet. I steal from here all the time when I don't have money, or don't feel like socializing. I walk in and proceed to start my stealing mission, going through the steps in my head.
1. Smile politely at cashier, they don't expect the polite happy people to steal, if I was acting suspicious, of course they would suspect me. But, if I'm putting myself out there, they think I'm too polite.
2. Never take any more than you can hide. Or carry, I don't need to be tripping and dropping stuff out of my fucking ass as I'm leaving, trying to remain inconspicuous. But of course I can steal more than most, because I have practice with it.
3. I walk to a few isles before heading to the one filled with sweets and candy. Making myself seem like I'm actually browsing makes me seem more normal and less suspicious of a character.
4. I mumble to myself as I look at the candy bars, or I hum a tune, I don't know why, but this seems to throw people off your scent. Who cares? It works.
5. I look at the item and subtly slip in into the top of my jean shorts, my baggy shirt covering the chocolate bar completely. I repeat this step for all the items. I even was putting a shit ton in my boots and bra, and a couple things in my backpack when I pretended to be trying to scratch my back or neck.
Richie's POV
Ugh, mom sent me to the corner store to buy milk, telling me "I need it to make something for my hangover"
She's constantly drunk. Constantly passed out in the hallway and constantly telling me how much she would rather a daughter, and that she 'wishes I wouldn't come home' I walk into the store and grab the milk, when I hear a sweet, familiar hum.
Sweet Cheeks. Obviously. I wanna sneak up on her. I walk to the isle I hear the humming from. I peer around the corner, yep it's her. And her back is facing me. I slowly approach her, quietly tip toeing towards her turned back, she slips something into the waist of her jean shorts, a pack of razor blades.
"Sweets?" I said weakly, I was in shock. Not because she was stealing, well partially because she was stealing, but also because she was stealing razor blades, and not for shaving, because I don't believe she has a beard. No. She doesn't.
Y/N POV
I finished in the candy isle, and went to grab a new pack of razor blades. Because mine are kind of old.
I slip a pack of three into the waist band of my shorts and decide I'm good on the stash of shit, I don't wanna over do my stealing and make a mistake. I have A LOT but of course, not more than I can carry, I could carry more, but I don't want to. And I just feel like I shouldn't. I'm about to leave but freeze on the spot when I hear a familiar voice, one of my favourite voices. But it wasn't as snarky and sarcastic as usual, it was weak and shocked. Oh god, he saw me steal. Please tell me he didn't see what I stole. Oh god.
I slowly turn around, not making eye contact. Because, no. I hate eye contact and I'm embarrassed. And ashamed.
I look at his ear but can still clearly see his wide eyes. Normally I would look at his eye brow but I can't even be that close to eye contact right now. His face goes stern. I turn to leave before he gets me caught.
It seems more natural now that I'm leaving because of someone bothering me. Instead of it being because I'm stealing.
I walk out of the store and towards my bike, walking to a near by alleyway, with Richie on my heels. I took everything out of my shorts, bra, and boots. And shoved them into my backpack as Richie reached me.
"Give it to me" was all he said. His voice, stern and serious.
"Right here? You want me to give it to you? Right here right now?" I said jokingly, implying a dirty joke. I don't wanna talk about this right now. It's uncomfortable and I'd prefer not to.
"Don't! Make a dirty joke right now! This is important, so can you not!" He shouted. Causing my smirk to falter and for me to jump slightly at his sudden harshness. Richie never shouts at me. He's never shouted at me in my life. Not ever since I moved here. That's what bothered me now, not that he wants me to give him the blades, but because he yelled at me.
"And that is coming from you? Wow" was what I wanted to say, but I was too startled at his booming voice when he yelled at me. It really did cause me to flinch, I hate it when people yell at me. I hate it. I hate it so much.
His features soften immensely when he sees me flinch and take the tiniest step back.
"N/n" he whispered gently, reaching for me. He had just given me a heart attack and now he wants to be sweet and hold my hand? I frowned at his open hand and glanced at his apologetic eyes. I frowned even more, knowing I was over reacting, but I wouldn't help it. When I was little my dad used to come home and just scream, in my face, all the time.
It scared me, and he doesn't do it anymore but the fear stuck with me from when I was little.
When I didn't take Richie's hand he placed it on my already tense shoulder. I don't know why, but I was just scared of him yelling at me, and now when he puts his hand on my shoulder I can't help but relax. My shoulders indeed, did go from tense to talked just a moment after he touched them.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, I was just worried is all" he muttered in my ear as he slid his hands that were placed on my shoulders,clown to my waist and his arms wrapped around me in a protective hug.
I reached up to wrap my arms around his neck to return the hug. He let out a breath when I did so, as if he was worried I wouldn't trust him anymore after he shouted.
A moment later he let go. "Sorry hot stuff, as much I would love to keep that going. I'm gonna need to take those razors from you" he said, trying to sound casual but he came off sounding downright concerned.
"What do you mean? Are you worried that I'm cutting myself? Dude! Their for my dad! He'll actually slit my throat if I don't get them for him!" I exclaimed, lying through my teeth.
Richie's cheeks turned a faint pink in embarrassment as I finished my sentence.
"Oh" was all he said as he looked down, Before his head shot back up a moment later to bring up an apparently valid point.
"Then what's with all the constant bracelets?" He asks confidently.
"I can wear bracelets if I want. I just like playing with them if I get nervous, and I lose them easily so I always have multiple.
He frowned. Yes. I beat him.
Ugh or not.
"Let me see" he said, prying the subject. My expression almost faltered, but I caught it before the panic hit my face.
"Fine" I spoke, equally as confident as I showed him my left wrist. Which was....clean.
He sighed in relief, seemingly satisfied. "Can I go now?" I questioned impatiently. Picking up my bike and looking at the bridge of Richie's nose. I didn't even wait for an answer, I turned, walking my bike with hand and letting the other hang at my side unused. Obviously the one at my side is my right hand, not wanting to stretch the cuts, I'm paranoid that that can happen. But I don't think it can.
"Hey sweets?" he started, grabbing my wrist to make me turn around, it caught me off guard as I winced and yelped in pain.
"Y/n?" He said worriedly, but quietly, knowing what my little scream was about.
I looked at my feet.
He gently grabbed my hand and went to touch my sleeve. He made a move to roll it up and I jerked my hand away quickly,
I want to go home. I'm so stupid why did I have to start again? Shit.
"n/n? Let me see." He demanded quietly, I frowned and got on my bike. Leaving him there alone.