And this is how I feel
Seven years. That's how long she cut herself. At the virgin age of eleven, she began the self-mutilation. It was always with a sharp razor blade found under the bathroom cabinet hidden in a small crevice between the bottom of the cabinet and the floor. It was always on a Thursday night after the rest of her family had gone to bed.
She preferred the quiet, where no one could disturb her and, if she listened hard enough, she could hear the sound of metal tearing the flesh. Her movements were swift, but graceful. Each motion of her hand was smooth and precise, as if there were some special pattern she was carving. After a quarter of an hour, she would return the blade to its former position, bandage her wrist, and go to bed. She never remembered the blood. There would just be an unexplainable red stain the next morning.
She was not invisible. Her classmates, teachers, family....they all noticed. And they wondered. They reached out blindly, trying to cure her sickness without ever touching base with the root of all evil. Help was just another four letter word.
If the world cared enough to delve deeper into her mind, the would have discovered the key to Pandora's box. But no one dared life the lid this time.
At first glance, she was an enigma wrapped in a puzzle. Her piercing black eyes were always fixated on something: a dark cloud in the sky, a piece of gum on the sidewalk, the innocent smile of a youngster. What did all of these things have in common? Absolutely nothing. But what one single purpose did they all share? They were her escape, her means of forgetting the madness inside, if only for a few ephemeral moments.
Nobody had ever seen her cry. Ever. And so, one thing led to another and she was labeled as "emotionally unstable." Thereafter, she faded into obscurity. To the eyes of the world, she was just another teenage mishap, another depressed, angst-filled high schooler who found solace in drawing attention to herself by afflicting physical pain. Her story was much the same as everyone else's.
So what unspeakable secrets lay bottled up inside of her head? What dire incident had left her pathetically vulnerable as to provoke her into such disturbing behavior? What cataclysmic phenomena could have shut her into the corridor of hell, where she lay trapped in the solitary confinement of her own mind?
In the darkness whereshe cried-not with raging tears that gushed down the sides of her face, but internally, where rage consumed her-she found solace. To cut herself, with such severity and such hatred that she could utter the only sounds that her throat would permit: shrieks of pain.
She preferred the quiet, where no one could disturb her and, if she listened hard enough, she could hear the sound of metal tearing the flesh. Her movements were swift, but graceful. Each motion of her hand was smooth and precise, as if there were some special pattern she was carving. After a quarter of an hour, she would return the blade to its former position, bandage her wrist, and go to bed. She never remembered the blood. There would just be an unexplainable red stain the next morning.
She was not invisible. Her classmates, teachers, family....they all noticed. And they wondered. They reached out blindly, trying to cure her sickness without ever touching base with the root of all evil. Help was just another four letter word.
If the world cared enough to delve deeper into her mind, the would have discovered the key to Pandora's box. But no one dared life the lid this time.
At first glance, she was an enigma wrapped in a puzzle. Her piercing black eyes were always fixated on something: a dark cloud in the sky, a piece of gum on the sidewalk, the innocent smile of a youngster. What did all of these things have in common? Absolutely nothing. But what one single purpose did they all share? They were her escape, her means of forgetting the madness inside, if only for a few ephemeral moments.
Nobody had ever seen her cry. Ever. And so, one thing led to another and she was labeled as "emotionally unstable." Thereafter, she faded into obscurity. To the eyes of the world, she was just another teenage mishap, another depressed, angst-filled high schooler who found solace in drawing attention to herself by afflicting physical pain. Her story was much the same as everyone else's.
So what unspeakable secrets lay bottled up inside of her head? What dire incident had left her pathetically vulnerable as to provoke her into such disturbing behavior? What cataclysmic phenomena could have shut her into the corridor of hell, where she lay trapped in the solitary confinement of her own mind?
In the darkness whereshe cried-not with raging tears that gushed down the sides of her face, but internally, where rage consumed her-she found solace. To cut herself, with such severity and such hatred that she could utter the only sounds that her throat would permit: shrieks of pain.