One Last Cut

Just been thinking a lot about how it must feel to have so much trauma and stress that one turns to cutting, kinda turned into this.

My hand trembles at the slightest sound. I can’t let them catch me, no not here. I’ve behaved so well stuck in this facility they refuse to call a prison, but that’s all it really is. I can’t even remember how I was able to find the blade, let alone keep it hidden for days. The checks and inspections they run here are routine, they never miss a thing. Yet here I am, locked away within this electrical closet, clutching its cold steel in my hands. They’ve managed to stop me for weeks, but it’s not for reasons the doctors say. I’m not getting any better, my mind hasn’t changed one bit since my arrival. The only thing that has changed is the urge, it only grows and grows.

               

                It sits there in the back of my mind, nagging and screaming at me just to get a simple fix. Just one small cut, just a minute amount of pain and I’ll feel better. The voices would recede and I could go back to normal. I wouldn’t need the damn pills they shove down my throat, my “medication”. They claim it will help me, change my mind from its deviant thoughts back towards a more normal feeling.

               

                Who are they to say what is normal? They use their texts and historical documents, their studies and research, but what about the embarrassment these people would face for speaking the truth? Who’s to say that famous people throughout history didn’t enjoy doing things deemed outside the norm, as long as they lived their lives doing things that benefited others no one spoke of their dirty little secrets. They all turned a blind eye. Prisons like this shouldn’t exist; they shouldn’t undermine our willpower and take over control simply because we’re not “normal”.

 

                Welker traded in his substance abuse problems and violent acts for a doped up mindless zombie. To him it doesn’t matter, call his name and there’s no response. He’s far gone, working the drugs and keeping himself high. Whenever he gets the slightest inkling of control back, he makes sure to cause a scene. He loves what they make him, how they set the example to be a model patient (inmate). Welker rests with the domicile inmates; I like to call them sloths. They’re good for nothing, they won’t ever be let out or rejoin society, all hope for them has been given up. They’re the lucky ones, doped up and unaware, they only meet with the doctors every other month, usually only to receive an evaluation and make sure their dosages are all in check.

 

                I would take residence with the wolves. We lie in wait, unsure of what to do or how to act, unstable and constantly craving. We act like the sheep they want us to be in hopes they’ll let us out, and more often than not it was working. Damn new warden (Medical Director) came in and saw through everyone, yet we still put on the act. Useless I know but we fear the treatment we’d receive by the guards if we changed.

 

                Often I’ve wondered how the blade would feel against my face, if the pain is greater and more pleasing. Then again if I were to find out now, everyone would know there would be no hiding again. But if I could just bring it to my throat, just slide it across; I can escape from this hellish institute. No longer subject to their analysis or suppression, I’ll be free. Free, just as I was before she shoved me in here. The one who I thought would stand in my support, my loving wife. How did she ever let them do this to me? The one meant to stand with me and help me through it all, and she throws me away to be dissected by these animals. I’ll show her I’m still in control, I’ll show them all that they don’t have any hold on me. I’ll stand as a martyr to all other wolves still caged in here, show them all that they need not fear that they will end up as sloths. They will join me one day, they will show you all how it is done, how we’re always the ones in control, that we are our own fate.