Into the Abyss

It was a simple act. Informal, even. ....I mean, I used a pencil, for God's sake!

                Straight A student. Talented artist, musical genius. Captain of Mock Trial, the tennis team, the track team. Beautiful. Athletic. That would have probably summed me up until right about December 4th. Hell, I had everything. Sort of.

                 The day I decided to give it away, I thought it would be temporary. It was a simple act. Informal, even. Not of much consequence. I mean, I used a pencil, for God's sake! Someone else's pencil. I bet they never guessed, standing in line at Staples, eager for the new school year, that they were buying an item which would ultimately ruin a life. I often wondered who they were, if they were like me, or if they were 'normal.' I define 'normal' as pretty much anyone NOT like me.

                 For some reason, I always pictured the pencil buyer as a guy. Don't ask me why.  It was inexplicably comforting to think of him. To hope he had a happy life. To take pleasure in the fact that he had no idea about the fate of his purchase. I thought --imagined, prayed-- that maybe he was like I had been before. Bright, talented, and with the whole world at his feet and his future in his hands. Somehow I believed that if I saw him, I would recognize him for who he was. Our lives seemed connected in a way.

              It turned out that they were more so than even I realized.

             .....Boredom. The bane of my existence and my eventual downfall. Highschool being the essential source of this phenomenon. I am not positive downright if this is what spurred me into becoming who I was, but it was a factor. A major factor.

            Another factor was my best friend. Mia. Flighty, irritable, needy, attention-seeking....these were all traits of hers. But most of all, she was bored like me. She needed entertainment, and she used me as her supplier. A position I was more than happy to fill. Nevertheless, I felt the strain. I had this idea that if I stopped being interesting, new, or unpredictable, she wouldn't want me as a friend anymore. That was one thing I had right. I feared that with an irrational terror that surpassed any which I had experienced before. I guess I was needy, too.

            I was texting her in class the day it all started. Of course I was. She was bored, as always. We were creating some morbid hypothetical together, a typical form of entertainment to us. But her attention was ebbing, and so was mine. I think a part of me realized how, well, f*****g LAME I was being. Working overtime to please my bossy, immature best friend who didn't even truly care about me. Other than to relieve her boredom, that is.

           The pencil was lying on the floor. It was black, and shaped into an elongated triangular prism, unlike the heaxagonal form of the traditional pencil. Inscribed on the black outer shell was Artistworks Co. I know these details seem like so much frivolous overkill, but they had significance to me. Just like the boy who bought the pencil. I suppose I noticed these details in a vague sense, as part of the background, but the only thing that struck me as remarkable about the damn thing then was that it was sharp. Very sharp.

           Bending awkwardly over the metal bar that held my chair to the desk, I stretched my hand out and grasped the pencil from the dusty tile floor. Without thinking -- or maybe without registering any CONCIOUS thought -- I traced the point along my arm. Delicately, gingerly. Before my mind (but not my subconcious) knew what I was doing, I was pressing down harder.

           It didn't feel good -- despite my actions, I was never a masochist. I never enjoyed the pain. I was forcing myself, pushing myself onward, as slowly I worked away at the layers of flesh before reaching the warm red blood underneath. Seeing my own blood, I was at once horrrified and elated. Horrified that I had done this to myself, and elated that, well, I had been ABLE to do this to myself. It was the first step, towards something about which I knew nothing of at the time. I felt IN CONTROL.

        I may not have enjoyed the pain, but -- and this may sound a tad vampiristic -- I loved the taste of the blood. Metallic, salty....so many of you out there will probably think GROSS!! Or, if you don't, you're probably Twilight fans who are in love with the IDEA of drinking blood. Whatever, vampiristic or not, I sucked the wound I had created dry. It was rewarding, satisfying.

       This was the first time of many that I would complete this ritual. It was freeing, it was wonderful, it was painful, it was terrifying.

        I didn't text Mia back that day. It was the first time in probably the entire (if short) history of our friendship that I ended the conversation. It felt good.

       The feeling was temporary.

Author's Note

I can't seem to write anything cheerful today. Oh well. Please review. ....the style is meant to be fairly simplistic and informal, but let me know if it is overly so.