Cut Is More Than A Three Letter Word

December 5, 2009
By , Hainesport, NJ
They didn’t know me. No one did. They all thought I was preppy and beautiful. The Queen of Chase Miller High School, some say. But they didn’t really know me at all. I put an act on everyday at school and with my friends. No one knows the truth. They don’t know I’m suicidal or that I’ve been depressed since the beginning of middle school. I’m a senior now and everyday I face the infamous question, life or death? I always choose life. It’s the right decision, right? I just don’t know anymore.
“You never do anything to help out around here, Amber. Nothing. You just live as if every day’s a party and it’s not! When will you finally realize that?” my mother says, scolding me yet again.
I’m not really paying attention to her, just catching bits and pieces of her speech. As I glance away, I feel her hand, hot and quick, smack my cheek, I bite my lip to hide the pain. I pit my hand slowly up to my cheek and pull my fingers away to see bright red blood sliding down them. Her nails had cut me again. I hated explaining the cuts to my friends. I never knew what to say. I put my arm behind my back and grab the other one, digging my nails into it.
I was accustomed to the twinge of pain it brought. Physical pain was easier than emotional pain. While I blinked rapidly to dry the glistening teardrops in my eyes, my mother went on.
“Amber! Pay attention to me!” my mother hissed.
I nodded once, letting my hair fall into my face. She glared at me before leaving my bedroom. I closed and locked the door behind her. I fell back onto my bed, letting the tears flow. I lay there for a few minutes before getting up and walking over to my bathroom door. I opened the door and went towards the shower.
The razor blade just happened to be the first thing I saw. I picked it up carefully. I brought the shining silver blade to the tip of my pointer finger. I pushed the blade against my finger. The pain didn’t come. I was used to this. I pulled the razor blade away and looked at the shining droplets of blood.
As the cut ceased bleeding, I remembered the cuts on my face. I turned to face the wall-length mirror, eyeing the girl in front of me.
Light brown hair fanned out over her shoulders. Her pale complexion was made paler by four scratches across her left cheek. Small, amber eyes stared back at me. They’re the reason for my name. My mother and father couldn’t decide on a name. Elizabeth, too long. Melissa, too old. Natalie, no particular reason. My father had looked at me and said, “Amber.”
I still think he was talking about my eye color, but I guess my mother thought it was a name suggestion. It’s not like I can ask him, though. He died in a car crash nine years ago. I had been waiting at school for him to come and pick me up. My mother had run up, tearstains all down her dress.
“Oh, thank God!” she had said as she hugged me, “I didn’t know if your father had picked you up or not!”
I’m pretty sure that was the last loving thing she said to me. I glance down at my hands, my nails a bright neon pink. I turn them over and look at the worn down tips of my fingers.
I’ve learned to deal with my mother. I mainly stay out of her way, but my life still has a regular pattern, screw up, speech, slap, tears, cutting and the rest is filled with lies.
I go over to my dresser and finally find a piece of paper. Using my bright purple pen, I scribble my small paragraph down before ripping it up.

My name is Amber Montgomery. I committed suicide on November 21, 2008. I’m leaving this world for many reasons. Do not let anyone blame themselves for this. The decision may have been influenced, but I made it.

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