When he cuts he loses touch and when he loses touch it's like he dissappears... just what he wants to not exist; to not be.
He looked down with a peaceful smile lingering on his face on the damage he had done to himself. The crimson shining blood rolling slowly down his wrist was almost like all his worries were seeping away out of his body.
He turned to the side slightly while sitting on his bed careful not to get blood all over his duvet. The last thing he wanted was his parent's to find out about he self injurious behaviour. He picked up the tissues and bandages he had prepared before he had begun cutting and carefully cleaned his gaping wound which was continuously pouring out blood and bandaged it up.
He had self harmed for almost two months now. Everyday, at the same time in the evening and whenever else he began to crave it. He loved it. The release it gave him, the security he felt, he felt numb, but it was a nice kind of numb, dream like, it was like he had simply drifted away. It was his miracle cure for his anxiety, when xanax was just not enough it stopped the ongoing panic he felt, the racing of his heart. All he had to do was cut and it went away; suddenly he could breathe.
He lay down on the bed stroking his bandaged wrist and tears started to seep out of the corners of his eyes and roll down his pale cheeks. He wrapped his duvet all around himself as if he was desperately trying to keep warm. He buried his face in his soft pillow and wept fiercely. Another thing self injury accomplished. It let him cry at times when he felt completely desperate to, yet couldn't much to his frustration.
Gerard ran down the basement stairs to his fortress, his bedroom where he would hide himself away. School had been suffocating, it always was. He would sit alone all day nobody to talk to about how depressed he often felt and how his sleep was plagued by horrific nightmares. He felt so lonely yet often inside he would tell himself that he deserved it... he wasn't worthy to have friends; he didn't blame the other kids for thinking he was weird because he was, a weird fat loser.
He grabbed catcher in the rye his favourite book from the shelf and turned to the tenth page and there it was, his shiny blade. Nobody would ever think of looking there if they ever found out about his daily cutting sessions and wished to search his room to take his blade from him. That was another one of his fears that he would be found out and his mom would try to take his blades from him. He kept them hidden around his room in unlikely places, under his pillow and mattress, in comic books, in his pencil case full of his art materials.
He could never survive without self harming and right then he needed it more than anything to silence the screaming inside of him and to keep him here one more night; Feeling suicidal was a close companion of his.
After a while the tears stopped and that common feeling of utter tranquillity and dreaminess drifted over him and now that he had rid all emotion from his body he could sleep yet in the back of his mind he knew as soon as he woke up again he would be back at the beginning of the ever going cycle. Back to the anxiety and feeling on edge and history would repeat itself by him inflicting wounds on his body. The wounds that were a gateway to let him into his own little world.