Categories > Original > Drama
It was ritual by now. You painted a smile on your face as you walked into your home, greeted your adoring family, and rushed upstairs to your bedroom.
Lock the door, hear the metal “click” you’ve become so familiar of.
Then the tears come. What the hell are you crying about? You have no reason to have thrown yourself on your bed, and shove your face into a pillow to quiet a sob. You shouldn’t be crying! You’re such a baby, crying over nothing, nothing at all. Such a stupid, hopeless baby. By now, you were saying this to yourself, over and over, through your sobs and gasps.
It’s all part of the ritual.
Exhausted, you get up, with one thing in mind. Open a drawer. Pull out “your box”. Fish around, until you find what you’ve been looking for. You hold it up to eye level, and observe it. One of the shining pieces of metal you stole from an old shaving razor.
Lie back on the bed. Lift your shirt to expose your scarred stomach. Shudder as you trail your finger along the thick, white marks deforming your already pale skin. Glide the blade along the guidelines. Once. Twice. Three times. Sting. Blood. Numbness.
Just following the ritual.
Open your eyes. Sigh. Adjust your shirt to the proper position. Return the razor to the box, return the box to the drawer.
Fall back onto the bed. You really shouldn’t do this to yourself. There’s obviously something wrong with you. Pain isn’t supposed to feel good, that doesn’t make any sense. But it does.
Your ritual comes to an end, as you curl up under your covers, and fall asleep, thinking about what would happen if you didn’t wake up tomorrow.
This is your peace.
At least, until the numbness wears off.
Lock the door, hear the metal “click” you’ve become so familiar of.
Then the tears come. What the hell are you crying about? You have no reason to have thrown yourself on your bed, and shove your face into a pillow to quiet a sob. You shouldn’t be crying! You’re such a baby, crying over nothing, nothing at all. Such a stupid, hopeless baby. By now, you were saying this to yourself, over and over, through your sobs and gasps.
It’s all part of the ritual.
Exhausted, you get up, with one thing in mind. Open a drawer. Pull out “your box”. Fish around, until you find what you’ve been looking for. You hold it up to eye level, and observe it. One of the shining pieces of metal you stole from an old shaving razor.
Lie back on the bed. Lift your shirt to expose your scarred stomach. Shudder as you trail your finger along the thick, white marks deforming your already pale skin. Glide the blade along the guidelines. Once. Twice. Three times. Sting. Blood. Numbness.
Just following the ritual.
Open your eyes. Sigh. Adjust your shirt to the proper position. Return the razor to the box, return the box to the drawer.
Fall back onto the bed. You really shouldn’t do this to yourself. There’s obviously something wrong with you. Pain isn’t supposed to feel good, that doesn’t make any sense. But it does.
Your ritual comes to an end, as you curl up under your covers, and fall asleep, thinking about what would happen if you didn’t wake up tomorrow.
This is your peace.
At least, until the numbness wears off.
Sign up to rate and review this story