"It's Personal."

This dates back to 10-09-2012. The 'he' mentioned is a fellow Valucre user, one I was stupidly crushing on at the time.

But right now it was all she could think about: her question, will you at least tell me why you won’t tell me?

And his answer: because it’s personal.

The blackness had descended like a blanket. Thick. Suffocating.

It’s personal.

He might as well have just said, unlike you I don’t tell everyone every little detail about my life. My heart’s tucked away where no one can see, I don’t wear it on my sleeve; you’re stupid to think I’ll give away my secrets for free.

She steps into the bathroom, locks the door behind her. The click of the mechanism resonates faintly, voicing a note of finalty. It was going to happen now, there was no going back. Only one way to comfort herself. Only one way to gather enough strength to pretend like she was okay.

The weapon to be used is concealed in her pocket. It’s a new friend; an x-acto blade, freshly stolen. It brings a certain excitement, running a silver-lined undercurrent alongside the pain. No one else but a fellow self-harmer would understand it, the thrill of trying out a new method, a new blade.

It cut like a dream.

- - -

Later, she sprawls on the rumpled sheets of her bed, preoccupied with the task of reopening the scar tissue on her wrists. There's not a lot there, but that's okay - - she can always fix that. Except that's not really a major concern at the moment.

She's numb. So many thoughts. Thick emotion held at bay courtesy of the dull, throbbing pain. Which was all she had to show for her earlier ordeal. Deep gashes, ones that hadn't bled. They'd shown white; the edges jagged, parted like marble lips, allowing her to see inside. All the white had scared her - she hated the color white.

Then the blood had come, a slow flow but an arrival nonetheless. Crimson sweeping over the white, red droplets seething against the cuts' lips.

Stitches, had been the first thought to come to her mind. I'm going to need stitches.

And then a kind of happiness, because she'd always wanted stitches.

Happiness. Until the blood wouldn't stop.

So much blood, and the first throb of pain. A deep, soul-wrenching sort of pain.

A good half hour later, the blood still hadn't ceased. It had, however, decreased to a trickle, if that counted for anything. But blood or no blood, her hands hadn't stopped shaking. Something was wrong with her, wrong with her inside, and it scared the piss out of her.

Was this how it was always going to be?

Was she always going to do this?

Thirteen f*****g years old. She was thirteen years old, and she needed to start acting like it, god damn it. Cutting wasn't a solution, wasn't the answer. It wasn't a friend. It was a monster, and had been from the very beginning, sucking her in with seductive whispers and stygian caresses.

The monster had turned her way of thinking from maybe if I try harder people will care more, to maybe if I go a little lower people will care more.

Maybe if I go a little deeper . .

Make the swipe a little stronger . .

more . .
more . .
more . .

They had a word for people like her, and it wasn't special, wasn't victim. It was pathetic.

Author's Note

Okay, so I have a tendency to fall for older guys. Or.. just anyone who pays me any attention, or compliments me. I used to blame it on the hormones that come with being an adolescent, but as apart of my New Years' resolution, I made it a habit to take responsibility for my mistakes and cease blaming them on my bad genes and cliches.

As always, critism and support is wholeheartedly welcome, and negative remarks prohibited.

Reviews

[Twizzler]

This is a perfect description of inside a cutter's mind and really draws the reader in as if they were there. I like how it was set up, you are very talented.