Life as a cutter.

I want to die. Yo quiero morir. What is so good about living? You get broken, and scratched, and hurt. Dead, nothing can happen to you. You can't hurt your best friends. You don't have to be perfect for your parents. You don't need to wear the best clothes, makeup, shave, because you don't need to impress anyone.
But. I can't die. No puedo morir. See that's the thing. I feel as if I am immortal. Living forever is boring, but I still can't die. Of course I'm not immortal though. I could kill myself. End my fragile human life. With one deep slice of the blade.
My first thoughts were of death. Now they are of hurt. If I can't die, I can hurt myself. Punish myself. Let myself know, that I'm not perfect. Not good for anybody. I don't deserve this body. The cuts were tiny at first. scratches. They got deeper. They scarred. They took months to heal, they made me wait months to cut again. But, I couldn't wait months. I moved, from my hip, to my leg. From my leg, to my arm. shoulder. neck. hands.
I turned invisible. Lived a life of shame. I didn't like myself, shameful to be me. Shameful for lying to the people I once loved. I was a cutter, even lower on the social classes I made in my mind. I was addicted to the blood and pain.
If I couldn't die, I could at least pretend I did. No one paid attention to me anymore. I didn't talk. I did my work. Didn't cause trouble. Didn't do anything. I was invisible to them. The normal people. Them.
Pretend. Fake. Act. Lies. All part of my daily life now. I couldn't go one sentence without lying. I lied to my best friends, my parents, my family. "I forget where I got that scar from, but that one over there was from my cat, and the one next to it was from shaving. and the ones criss crossed on top of them, they're from sailing." I wish I had enough courage to finally tell them that I lied. That all the other cuts and scars, all over my body, were from self harm.
I wore layers and layers of clothes, even in the summer. If someone touched me, they would feel the scars burning through the thin cloth. Their hands felt like poison on my skin, opening up fresh cuts, and disturbing the burned skin. I started to try and stop. I was afraid that the next time I cut, it would be the last. That the next time I cut, I would get out of control. I didn't know how bad the next cut would be.
The night I cut too deep, I was scared. I almost called 911. But what would happen to my secret? My carefully hidden secret? The blood wouldn't stop pouring onto the bathroom rug. I was shaking, scared. I didn't have the materials to stop my bleeding arm. I swore to never let it happen again. But of course, I broke any promises I made.
The next shopping trip was solely about supplies. Butterfly strips, different dressings, antibiotic cream, medical tape, scar reducers. No one noticed me, while I on the other had looked for all the people with the same supplies, hoping I was not alone, when I was. Every where I went I had to look for the people with scars on their arms, for people who only wore long sleeved shirts and boots. But there were none. I was broke, the bracelets and long sleeved shirts in my new wardrobe kept getting stained with scarlet paint pulsing out of my body.
The blood was every where. The carpets were stained, along with my clothes. Every day there was a new stain to hide, or new spots of blood to be cleaned up. I couldn't go a day with out cutting, or breaking open a scab. I would use anything. A paperclip, sewing needle, a car key.
Vacations were no more. I couldn't go to the beach without looking out of place, the swimming pool was a stinging pit of poison for the new cuts. So I itched, nothing could sooth the skin and scabs.
I was worried, but the dreams I had were worse. Dreams where I was lying on the floor, bloody, limbs torn off from the deep cutting. No way to get help. I loved the dreams though, I hated feeling alone, but the pain was too good to let go.

Abandonment

    He thought a lot that day. Would the rope hold him by the neck? would the metal bar in his closet break with his weight? Who would find him? his sister, mother, father? His fingers ran over the coarse rope, his eyes staring past the scene into memories of his pain. He knew he was being selfish, but after a decade of pleasing everyone else, didn't he deserve it? something he wanted for once. He knew people would remember him in school days after death. But maybe, now, they would notice the other suffering kids. Kids like him.
    He stepped on the stool. Prepared to die. End the horrors. He was ready for his neck to break, for him to hang in the closet by the rough rope. Sixteen years was enough for him. Enough for him to know the world wasn't getting any better. The rope slipped easily around his neck. His pulse was strong, pounding in his ears, teasing him, mocking his life. The need to end it. The step off the stool, with the rope on his neck seemed like hours, when really it was only a second. Was the note readable? Was he right? But by the time he decided not to take his life, it was too late. He hung in the closet, his face still wet with tears.
    Dinner! her mother called up the stairs. The girl came prancing down the stairs, happy, with nothing to worry about. Her mother and father were busy, so she decided to get her brother. She knocked on the door and was a little spooked to hear it creak open. Her eyes widened. There was almost nothing in the room. The bed was made, books neatly stacked into piles. She slowly made her way to the middle of the room. To look at the only out of place thing, a piece of paper. "Michael!" she called, "this isn't funny!" she picked up the note, glanced at the closet, and screamed.

    Her brother. Hanging solemnly in the closet by his neck. dead. the realization hit her as her parents came racing up the stairs. dead. her older brother. her protector. The one that helped her with homework. and who always listened to her. The only one who seemed to treat her like an adult. dead. She sat in the room, crying, screaming at him, clawing her hands, arms, legs. dead. Her parents read the note, and called 911. Left her screaming in pain.