October 20, 2010
I lower the blade to my wrist.
The dim glow of my lamp hits the razor’s sharp edge and sends a ray of light beaming straight into my eyes. I stumble, and the knife slips from my hand, lands on my faded duvet. The spell is broken. I can hear her again, the drawn out screams that I was trying to cover up. I hear the dull thud of a fist against her; hear the sound of my mother slumping to the kitchen floor, with her quiet whimpers, and then my father’s excuses. I know that in the morning, if I leave my room, I will be greeted by a smiling mom, making pancakes, whistling. I know that if I ask my mom why she’s wearing long sleeves and limping, she’ll say she tripped, and turn around so that I can’t see her tears falling onto the stove. This is how it is. I snatch up the razor and once again hold it to my wrist.
The voice in my head tells me I shouldn’t be doing this, that it’s wrong, that I’m a bad girl for cutting, but a voice in my head isn’t enough. I need an escape.
I wonder if it will hurt, when I do it. I wonder if my wrist will bleed a lot, if it will hurt in the morning. I wonder if anyone will notice. I know my family won’t. With this thought, I draw the blade slowly across the base of my hand. Nothing. A faint line of blood appears, and the spot twinges with a spasm of pain, but after the haze clears, nothing. I feel the same. I hear her crying. This was supposed to help! With that thought, I decide to get my mother’s sleeping pills. I can’t bear to hang in here any longer.
The cold tiles of the bathroom floor, combined with the shadows on the wall from the broken window make me want to leave this place as soon as I can. I rush to the medicine cabinet, grab the small white bottle, and run out. In my room, I inspect the five pills that I think will help me to get rid of all this, at least for the night.
But what if I took eight pills, instead of five? I could sleep through tomorrow too! Or ten? Or more! I could escape…forever.
But my mom…she would be all alone, in this big house, with nobody to comfort her, nobody to pity her, nobody to love her. I can’t do that to her.
There has to be a better way.
Maybe we can escape, mom and me. I’m sure she has some money. We could leave.
I throw the razor into the trash, toss the pills out my window, and huddle under the covers until morning.

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