Walking down the corridor, my feet are aching from hiking the stairs and trekking the crowded school halls for the week. The family's in the living room, enjoying their Friday night with pizza and corny movies. They wave and smile, a clear invitation to go join them. And maybe I could, if it were any other movie, any other night, if I weren't dying. In my room, door closed, music turned up loud, I sit and cry. I cry for my pain, help the tears wash it away. I cry for my family, they pretend not to, but they worry. And they have every right to. I cry for my scars, broken silver lines going every which direction on my wrists. I AM dying. On the inside. Mentally, but sometimes a physical pain will push through, overriding everything I'm doing. Take a breath; try not to let the sobs come through. It's so hard not to let my rotting heart destroy my life. Reaching into bedside table drawer, I pull out my jewelry box. Removing the key form around my neck, I push the key inside the keyhole and turn. On the outside, it looks like a normal jewelry box, but on the inside there are no gleaming rings and sparkling necklaces, but gleaming blades and sparking new razors. There is no jewelry polish and velvet cleaning rag, but a small cup for water and a blood stained rag. I prepare the rag, dipping it into the cup and wetting it. Then applying it to it to my wrist and blade, I clean them. I brace myself for the entry of the foreign metal into my flesh, an adrenaline filled fear washing over me. The first incision, not what I expected it to be. Not as deep as I had hoped. A second and third attempt, and I suddenly let out a wail. My fourth incision was much deeper than usual. Biting back a scream, I taste the blood flooding into my mouth.
"Be quick," I think to myself, as I clean the blade and my wrist again. It's bleeding much more than expected, so I grab my sopping wet rag, press it to my left wrist and hold it in place tightly with duct tape to help reduce the bleeding.
"Odd," I muse, frowning. I have done this for three years, and have never slipped nor felt faint afterwards. But I do now, and I can't work out whether that's good thing or not. I stay in my room for a few more minutes, to help calm my puffy red eyes down. And when they had, I get up, lock my jewelry box, replace the key to my neck and turn my music off.
"Time to go eat," I think to myself, feeling kind of dizzy. Twelve minutes and forty-five seconds later and I've had five slices of pizza and still feel odd. Mum decides to comment on my face being rather pale, and asks if I feel sick. My obvious answer is to deny it, but I'm not so sure. My turn to do the dishes and recycling, so I get up and collect everyone's plates, but suddenly, my vision shifts out of focus and my feet can no longer support me, I topple over, smashing plates and making a mess. But I don't notice as my vision shifts to blurriness, I see slivers of my mums face; only hear half of her shrill shrieks.
"I don't care." I think as my eyes close and darkness closes in around me.
"So this is what it feels like to die," I say out loud, it seems before blacking out completely.