IT’S ONLY been a few hours since we got home, and it is two in the morning. I’m lying in bed, completely awake. Emmett hasn’t spoken to me once, despite my multiple texts, and I’m going back to school on Friday. I need him, and I feel guilty for needing him, but the man is a rock, and I miss him, and he’s going through something, and I want to be there for him like he was for me, because all I had to do was text, and Emmett would be at my door. He’s a good person, a people person, like, he can read them, and I’m jealous, but maybe I’d be better at reading people if I hadn’t spent so much time obsessed with me.
My thoughts are swirling around and around in my head. I miss Emmett. I need Emmett. He’s a rock. I should text him, but when I was having issues, he always waited for me to text him.
I look at the clock, and it is now 2:29. I stare at the clock until it reads 2:33, and then I sit up slowly, navigating my mattress so that it doesn’t squeak when I stand. I press my ear to the door, listening to the silence. After a moment, I hear the dog snoring vaguely down the hall, her breaths even and soft as they snort in and out. My mom is not awake, because when she sleeps, she does not snore, but she breathes loudly enough that I can tell through the moderately thin walls. She’s definitely out.
It is not cold enough outside to warrant the furnace running, and it is not hot enough that I have the air conditioner on, so there is silence upstairs, and it leaves me alert. If the air conditioner were on, its rumble would mask my mother’s footsteps, and I could get caught. The weather is perfect, and I am thankful for that. I am reassured.
I step back slowly, placing my feet toe to heel, not making a sound on the hardwood. I pivot once I reach the rug that lives under my bed, facing the thing in order to crouch down and shove my arm under the mattress. I pull out a small makeup bag and sit on my bed, clutching the bag between my knees and unzip it slowly. It’s full of wadded-up tissues, and I carefully extract one, unwrapping the layers to reveal a small head I pulled off of a shower razor. There are three blades in it. They’ll suit my purpose just fine.
The feelings of guilt and grief have not subsided and have settled into my stomach, leaving me with a pit that will not go away. I press gently on the blade with my index finger. It’s only a little dull, but it is clean and will draw blood, and that’s all I need. I put the blade back in its tissue for a moment and grab the left sleeve of my shirt and pull on it, sliding my arm out so the shoulder of my shirt is gathered in my armpit and I contemplate the smooth skin, running a thumb over it before picking the blade back up.
“Fuck it all,” I whisper under my breath. Because that’s how it is. I thought I was better. I thought I was not going to do this anymore, but it would seem I will be because my world’s gone to shit, and I cannot cope, and for a moment, I really do not care.
The worst part is in my head. Rationally, I know very well that I shouldn’t be taking anything out on myself because it won’t solve anything, and it’ll set me back, but the impulsive, emotional side wins out because it is freeing and calming, and I am coping, and there is a dark happiness in the dark drops springing to life on my upper arm.
As I drag the blade back and forth, not sawing at my arm but kind of close, drawing blood, I’m so full of adrenaline that it doesn’t hurt as I tear my skin apart, and I engage in a mental battle.
My thoughts are on the emotional, that people make this romantic and beautifully tragic and that angers me because I know rationally that this is not beautiful, that scarring your own skin is not beautiful, but I cannot stop because I’m so fucked up in the head that I think it is gorgeous because I feel free and there is adrenaline flowing through me and while I’ve never been high, I am high on the feeling and there is a little voice in the back of my head screaming and crying and begging me to stop, but I am ignoring it in favor of the worst thing to do in a situation and I’m not sure if I’m fully aware that I am crying, silently, but there are tears on my face but I’m enjoying it and it makes me so mad that I enjoy literally tearing my skin open so that it bleeds and then puckers and scars over, I hate this and I love it and I hate that I love it and love that I hate it. It’s rational versus emotional and emotional wins every fucking time. I hate it I hate it I hate it.
But I love it and I can’t stop.
The clock reads 2:45 a.m., and I grab a tissue from the box on my bedside table and fold it in half in order to dab at the remaining drops of blood. I stopped the cutting a few minutes ago, and I have been waiting for my arm to clot and stop bleeding. With the other half of the tissue, I wipe off the razor carefully, putting it back into its tissue cocoon and zip the small bag back up before putting it back under my mattress just as silently as I retrieved it. The now bloodied tissue follows it, and I crawl back into bed and arrange myself on my right side, the way I’ve slept every night for months.
A few more tears slide free, and I stare at the wall. It’s three in the morning. It’s Wednesday. I’m going back to school Friday for the first time since May, and now it’s almost October. I spent the night forgetting what it’s like to be a human, and I don’t know if I’ll remember in time for school. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do anymore.
And, being the stupid person I am, I’ve just had a cutting relapse.