Everything was not alright. It would not be okay. It had become too much. Enough was enough. I could take no more. I had told myself before I would not let them get to me, but this clearly was not true. I had to make sure they couldn't hurt me anymore. The clear blue tears I had been strongly resisting now began to reproduce in the creases of my eye. My black eyeliner was already smudging, and my hands were violently shaking. But this was nothing new. I had been here before, sitting with my legs pulled up against my shivering body, huddled in the far corner of my bedroom. “I will be strong. I will not cry.” I repeated to myself, hoping if I said it enough it would become true. But the damage had already been done, the tears already forming. The bitter words and hate-filled screams, spoken by the ones I loved, pierced through my skull and rung sound within my head. I choked back sobs as I buried my head in desperate weakness. A pain formed in the pit of my stomach, and I could feel my heart throbbing. I quickly pulled myself together, wiped my streaky cheeks, and headed straight for the bathroom. Once inside, I carefully locked the door behind me and began rummaging around the medicine cabinet. For a bad situation this was excellent timing. We still had Vicodin left over from my dad's surgery. How poetic it was that I would use something of his to ease the pain that came from him. I dumped the remainder of pills from the tube into my hand, shoved them all into my mouth, and swallowed hard, following it with a cup of cool water from the sink. The drugs, now being distributed throughout my body, would let me see how well the pain killer would work. I ceremoniously took off all of my clothing and laid myself down into the bathtub. I would make myself clean, but not by any standard method. Poised with razor in hand, I began to illustrate what had become of my life. With my body as a canvas, I washed away my pain with my own homemade concoction. I traced red lines up and over my legs as warm blood trickled down into the drain. I took a breath. Storming up the stairs, I could hear my parents ready for round two. I sketched scarlet slashes on my arms. Banging fists against the sealed door, they demanded to be let in, but I would not hear it. I carved marks down my body as blood filled in the crevasses. I painted pretty patterns over my abdomen. And when I stopped to admire my handiwork, I saw the bloody mess that outlined my life. I saw that I was no more.
January 6, 2011