Once.

From the victim's point of view on bullying, cutting, and suicide.

-Victim-

'It was only once,' I would have said. Would I have said that, even though I knew it was a lie?

"Twice," I'd told him.

"How many times?" he asked me, morbid curiosity bubbling up out of him.

He was the only one who noticed. Not even my parents could see it. He didn't believe the lies I'd always given. Didn't believe I wasn't hurting.

'It was just four bloody cuts,' I wanted to tell him. But it was five that I'd left on my arm.

And so another lie rolled off my tongue, stinging like the razor blade. I could have told them that now I was done. I told him I wouldn't do it anymore. I told him I'd leave the knives alone.



"Emo freak," she says. The words slide slick through her mouth and to my ear. "What's the point of you living? You'll never amount to anything. You'll never be s**t in life."

I wish I thought they were lies. I wish I believed I would be alright.

"Why don't you just kill yourself? Why drag out your bulimic s**t life even longer?" he snarled.

Why was I living? They were right; I was worthless. I may as well have shoved myself into the lockers daily. When I got home, I would try to hurt again.



"It just slipped," I told them.

My mother had told me she invited my cousins over to go swimming. To shave before we left. To be careful not to nick myself with it this time. I didn't nick myself; I slashed myself. On the back of my ankle; yet another disappointment that was covered by a Band-Aid.

"But how?" she'd asked.

They would constantly nag me. But how did they not see what was truly happening, if they cared so much?

"I just need to be careful," I lied.

What I needed was to stop. But it was a part of me now. Like the bullying. Like being the victim.



"We'll be home past midnight," mother had told me. "Make sure you don't eat too late. Be in bed by ten."

"Mom, I will be fine. Go on now; stop worrying about me."

I needed her gone before I wimped out and changed my mind. She left. I did eat. I stuffed myself with food and then carried a bowl of ice cream upstairs. I threw myself onto the bathroom floor. I ate the ice cream there.

I knelt in front of the toilet and pulled my shirt over my head. I stuffed the fabric into my mouth and planted my elbows on the rim of the toilet. I took turns between stuffing the shirt farther into my mouth and inhaling it. I lost track of how many times I gagged and spilled the contents of my stomach.

I cut my arm three times and turned on the video camera.

"You got what you wanted, you b******s. I'm leaving."

I posted it on Facebook and tagged the school. Everyone had to 'like' the school by order.

I cut deeper than I ever had before. Being careful not to spill blood on my carpet, I put on my favorite CD.




-Innocent-

As soon as the video ended I ran. Out of my house. Out of my neighborhood. Into hers. A boy had abandoned his bike on the sidewalk so I picked it up and began to ride it.

When I got there blood was everywhere. I took off my jacket and covered her bleeding wrists. Her pulse was still going, but she didn't have much time left. I began to cry. I blamed myself for her pain, for all that blood. We all pushed her too far.

I called 911, told them she was bleeding to death.

"How?" the operator asks.

"When everyone asks me that later, I hope I can answer failed suicide attempt."

"Hold on, darlin'. They'll be there soon."




-Victim-

When I woke up I screamed.

Author's Note

This is not supposed to be happy. This is based off real-life things.