| I licked the blood from my fingertip, wincing at the empty almost nauseating taste to it. "Ugh." I reached over for the rag that I kept for these moments, and I pressed it hard to the open cut. Such a jagged slice and it was bleeding nonstop. It would stop though. It always did. No matter how hard or how deep I made the cut it always stopped. It's like something wouldn't let me do it. Something wasn't letting me die like I want to so badly. It had slowly become a daily routine. Wake up, school, come home, go to work, come home, and then cut. It was borederline an obsessive behaviour. I couldn't stand it when the scars faded to almost nothing but slightly smooth skin. I had to make the marks. I just had to. It didn't matter if I was horribly depressed or hysterically happy. If the scars weren't there. If the dried blood wasn't there. It made me uncomfortable. So I would cut. Knives, jagged cardboard, the rusting razor on the shelf in the shower, bottle caps, electrical plugs, paperclips, splintering wood. There were so many things. So many pretty and interesting shapes that I could make. Oh how creative I am, art school here I come! I put my arm between my knees, smearing the blood over my jeans. It soaked in and blossomed into wide and uneven circles. The scars on my other arm almost shone. Pretty. Pretty. Oh so pretty. I giggled softly and closed my eyes. It hurt. Everything was hurting. I tilted my head back and looked up at the ceiling, "But I just can't die." It wasn't like I was doing anything good here. I was a waste of space, a waste of breath, oh god a massive waste of emotions. I guess I could always use a gun. But...I'm too scared. I want to do it with my own hands, to feel it as I go. Or maybe I really didn't want to die. Silence. "Nah." The desperation was rooted so deep within me that it hurt my very own heart to watch myself suffer every day the things that I wanted to escape from. Sometimes I would imagine being behind someone else's eyes as I walked down the hall. Watching myself as I slowly turned into an idiot. A moron. A jackass. Maybe I'm being dramatic. I fell onto the mattress, my back shifting the covers. I lifted my arm up and stared at the rapidly closing gash. And then it hit me. The choking in my throat. The burn in my eyes. I bit my lip and swallowed hard. Go away, go away, go away! I've cried enough for myself already! Stupid, stupid me! I stifled a scream and I dug my nails hard into the cut. Tearing at the skin, clawing at the insides of it. It hurt so badly, but I wanted this so much more so than I could ever want the pain to stop. "Die die die die die die! God won't you just die!" I saw the skin rip a little, the blood flow faster. "More...more...just a little more." IthurtsithurtsithurtswhyamIsosicklikethisithurtsmakeitstop. I couldn't keep it up, even my gut was burning and I pulled my hand away, the blood under my nails and on my fingertips. "Just die." The tears came fast, and hot, and hard. I didn't know what to do, where to go, who to turn to. I was so fucking alone again. I reached for the piece of broken vase I had used earlier. I can see it. Slicing my chest wide open. Letting everyone see the black thing inside me that was burning a hole into my very emotions. I wanted to rip it out and give it to her, her who has fueled all these rages for far too long. I wanted to tear it out, to give it away, to never have to worry and then... ...to die. This instability hurts my head. I think I need a nap. I crawled up the pillows, my arm bleeding and I was very, very tired. These animalistic problems. I closed my eyes, it was so hard to keep them open. But I would wake up, I knew it... I could never sleep forever until it was gone. The black thing inside of me pounded and I was sick. The black thing... That stupid heart of mine. The End |
| Animalistic Instability - And The BLACK THING Inside by: V |