Categories > Original > Drama > My Pain
Life. That’s what I carved into my arm. It hurts. I think I hit some major artery or something. I don’t care. If I die, maybe I’ll go to heaven or something. If I go to hell, I’ll just be glad it’s not this house. I want to die. I am unloved. I am worthless. I want to run away from life. Now. I want to curl up in this place and bleed dry.
I lean back against the side of the bathtub, savoring the cool marble under my face. It relaxes the rising nausea. I did it tonight because of Ronnie…and an insatiable need. A need to see myself bleed, to feel the stabbing pain. I don’t truly understand it. Maybe I’m addicted to cutting. Who cares? I find myself thinking.
I close my eyes as black stars dance around in my vision. I can’t see anything anymore, it’s all just a red and black haze. So much blood…
I open my eyes to hear a pounding on the door downstairs. I’m not dead. How disappointing. I pull myself to my feet using the edge of the wall, my vision sliding in and out of focus. I stumble my way downstairs to the front door, trying hard not to throw up or pass out. I throw it open to find Ronnie standing there, looking apologetic.
“Don’t shut the door,” he says, shoving his foot into the doorframe when I try to close it. “Look, I have no excuse. I was an asshole. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I don’t deserve for you to look at me as a friend ever again. But just so you know, I really am sorry, and if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I’ll take you out for a free lunch.”
I sway on my feet. He says something, but I barely hear it. The black stars are returning, and the edges of his form are blurred. He puts a hand on my shoulder, trying to steady me, asking me if I’m okay, louder this time. I look at him then, and I must appear steady, because he lets go of me. I fall forward, barely having a second to savor his arms sliding around my waist to catch me before I black out.
I wake up to a bright light in my eyes. I’m in a sterile, white room, wearing a hospital gown, wrapped in bandages and itchy white sheets. Still not dead. Ronnie is in a chair at my bedside, eyes closed, possibly asleep. On my other side is Sophie, who is grasping my hand so hard it hurts. “Lacey!” she squeals when my eyes open wide enough to see her. “How do you feel?”
“Like someone shoved my head in a microwave,” I mumble, reaching up to rub one temple.
“Lacey, why didn’t you tell me you cut?” Sophie asks, as if it’s urgent or something.
“Why would I tell you? So you could put me through counseling and never look at me the same way again?”
She falls silent, having nothing to return with.
“Why did you do it?” Ronnie asks, suddenly looking at me, eyes wide open.
“Because…because of skinny bitches with long blonde hair and a hot guy with one of those bitches on their arm.”
He stares at me, probably wondering if said ‘hot guy’ is him—which it totally is.
“My turn to ask questions. What happened?” I ask.
“You passed out from blood loss. You were half dead—majorly fucked up. Slept right through the transfusion,” Ronnie says.
“Have you been here the whole time?”
He nods. “We both have. When I came to your house yesterday, I had Sophie in the car so she could come to lunch with us.”
“He wouldn’t tell me what happened between you two,” Sophie says.
“It was nothing,” Ronnie and I say at the same time.
“How long have I—we been here?” I say.
“A day. The doctor says you’ll be fine.”
I close my eyes as a sudden fatigue washes over me. “Please don’t leave me,” I whisper as I sink into sleep. Did I imagine it, or did Ronnie just take my hand?
I have to stay in the hospital for two weeks. Sophie comes by every afternoon to bring homework and stays till visiting hours are over. Ronnie stays by my bedside around the clock. He told the doctor he’s my brother, and for some reason they let him stay. I guess they understand that without someone there I’ll go insane.
“Hey,” he says Wednesday morning, bringing me doughnuts from the hospital cafeteria.
“You’re awesome,” I say, taking the pastries. “All the nurse would give me was toast.”
“Eat fast. They’ll take it if you’re not done by ten.” He sits in his regular spot next to me. “How do you feel?”
“Fine. Better than usual.”
He’s quiet for a moment, staring at the bandage on my arm. “Were you trying to kill yourself?” he asks softly.
“At the time, I wasn’t thinking about anything except my pain. So I guess in a way, yes. I thought at one point I was dying. That was fine by me. As long as it ended everything…”
“Why were you in such pain?”
I look into his gorgeous blue eyes, trying not to tell him his part in this. It would destroy him. “Because, as you know, my father is fucked up in a serious way. More serious than you know. On top of that, my mom’s gone, so I have no protection from him. AND, I have no real friends. Or at least, I didn’t. And I hate the girl I see in the mirror…”
“You mean the gorgeous girl in front of me? You’ve gotta understand that you are so much more than a girl in the mirror—so much more than your father or your mom or skinny bitches with long blonde hair. Don’t do this to yourself. You don’t deserve it.”
Tears slip down the sides of my face. “I don’t deserve to live.”
He stands and leans over me, his hand holding the side of my face, his lips gently touching my forehead. “You don’t have to believe me. It’s still true.”
I shudder with a soft sob that escapes my lips.
“Come to church with me Sunday. There’s a friend of mine I want you to meet.”
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
You know, I just realized I never said this earlier. Well, here goes.
If you or anyone you know is struggling with self-injury or depression, get help and get help fast.
Help came for Lacey.
But for some, help comes too late.
Self-injury is an addiction, just like drugs or porn, and when started, it can be nearly impossibly to stop.
Depression is like a deep black hole that can swallow you up if you let it.
So I urge you, get help.
Tell someone.
Tell a teacher, your school counselor (that is, if you still go to school), tell a preacher.
Who you tell doesn't matter.
Just know that the stars are always there, but we miss them in the dirt.
Remember hope.
We have hope.
(TWLOHA
I lean back against the side of the bathtub, savoring the cool marble under my face. It relaxes the rising nausea. I did it tonight because of Ronnie…and an insatiable need. A need to see myself bleed, to feel the stabbing pain. I don’t truly understand it. Maybe I’m addicted to cutting. Who cares? I find myself thinking.
I close my eyes as black stars dance around in my vision. I can’t see anything anymore, it’s all just a red and black haze. So much blood…
I open my eyes to hear a pounding on the door downstairs. I’m not dead. How disappointing. I pull myself to my feet using the edge of the wall, my vision sliding in and out of focus. I stumble my way downstairs to the front door, trying hard not to throw up or pass out. I throw it open to find Ronnie standing there, looking apologetic.
“Don’t shut the door,” he says, shoving his foot into the doorframe when I try to close it. “Look, I have no excuse. I was an asshole. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I don’t deserve for you to look at me as a friend ever again. But just so you know, I really am sorry, and if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I’ll take you out for a free lunch.”
I sway on my feet. He says something, but I barely hear it. The black stars are returning, and the edges of his form are blurred. He puts a hand on my shoulder, trying to steady me, asking me if I’m okay, louder this time. I look at him then, and I must appear steady, because he lets go of me. I fall forward, barely having a second to savor his arms sliding around my waist to catch me before I black out.
I wake up to a bright light in my eyes. I’m in a sterile, white room, wearing a hospital gown, wrapped in bandages and itchy white sheets. Still not dead. Ronnie is in a chair at my bedside, eyes closed, possibly asleep. On my other side is Sophie, who is grasping my hand so hard it hurts. “Lacey!” she squeals when my eyes open wide enough to see her. “How do you feel?”
“Like someone shoved my head in a microwave,” I mumble, reaching up to rub one temple.
“Lacey, why didn’t you tell me you cut?” Sophie asks, as if it’s urgent or something.
“Why would I tell you? So you could put me through counseling and never look at me the same way again?”
She falls silent, having nothing to return with.
“Why did you do it?” Ronnie asks, suddenly looking at me, eyes wide open.
“Because…because of skinny bitches with long blonde hair and a hot guy with one of those bitches on their arm.”
He stares at me, probably wondering if said ‘hot guy’ is him—which it totally is.
“My turn to ask questions. What happened?” I ask.
“You passed out from blood loss. You were half dead—majorly fucked up. Slept right through the transfusion,” Ronnie says.
“Have you been here the whole time?”
He nods. “We both have. When I came to your house yesterday, I had Sophie in the car so she could come to lunch with us.”
“He wouldn’t tell me what happened between you two,” Sophie says.
“It was nothing,” Ronnie and I say at the same time.
“How long have I—we been here?” I say.
“A day. The doctor says you’ll be fine.”
I close my eyes as a sudden fatigue washes over me. “Please don’t leave me,” I whisper as I sink into sleep. Did I imagine it, or did Ronnie just take my hand?
I have to stay in the hospital for two weeks. Sophie comes by every afternoon to bring homework and stays till visiting hours are over. Ronnie stays by my bedside around the clock. He told the doctor he’s my brother, and for some reason they let him stay. I guess they understand that without someone there I’ll go insane.
“Hey,” he says Wednesday morning, bringing me doughnuts from the hospital cafeteria.
“You’re awesome,” I say, taking the pastries. “All the nurse would give me was toast.”
“Eat fast. They’ll take it if you’re not done by ten.” He sits in his regular spot next to me. “How do you feel?”
“Fine. Better than usual.”
He’s quiet for a moment, staring at the bandage on my arm. “Were you trying to kill yourself?” he asks softly.
“At the time, I wasn’t thinking about anything except my pain. So I guess in a way, yes. I thought at one point I was dying. That was fine by me. As long as it ended everything…”
“Why were you in such pain?”
I look into his gorgeous blue eyes, trying not to tell him his part in this. It would destroy him. “Because, as you know, my father is fucked up in a serious way. More serious than you know. On top of that, my mom’s gone, so I have no protection from him. AND, I have no real friends. Or at least, I didn’t. And I hate the girl I see in the mirror…”
“You mean the gorgeous girl in front of me? You’ve gotta understand that you are so much more than a girl in the mirror—so much more than your father or your mom or skinny bitches with long blonde hair. Don’t do this to yourself. You don’t deserve it.”
Tears slip down the sides of my face. “I don’t deserve to live.”
He stands and leans over me, his hand holding the side of my face, his lips gently touching my forehead. “You don’t have to believe me. It’s still true.”
I shudder with a soft sob that escapes my lips.
“Come to church with me Sunday. There’s a friend of mine I want you to meet.”
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
You know, I just realized I never said this earlier. Well, here goes.
If you or anyone you know is struggling with self-injury or depression, get help and get help fast.
Help came for Lacey.
But for some, help comes too late.
Self-injury is an addiction, just like drugs or porn, and when started, it can be nearly impossibly to stop.
Depression is like a deep black hole that can swallow you up if you let it.
So I urge you, get help.
Tell someone.
Tell a teacher, your school counselor (that is, if you still go to school), tell a preacher.
Who you tell doesn't matter.
Just know that the stars are always there, but we miss them in the dirt.
Remember hope.
We have hope.
(TWLOHA
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