I watch the smoke flutter above the coffee table, losing itself in the air. Disappearing in the same thing that it’s made from.

Some drops of the coffee are spilled on the small plate, creating a perfectly color balanced circle around the cup. The jewelry that is messily dropped on the same coffee table makes the scene look a thousand times more elegant. It seems as if the only thing that is in order is the vase in the hallway. All other things are broken, stomped on and thrown away. Including me.

I could feel the fatigue entering my mind, my eyelids closing a little. Still, I don’t close them. I resist the temptation of a dreamless rest, the temptation of entering a place in my mind where the pain is almost non-existent. But I know better. I know that the second I will close my eyes, I will see him, staring at me with broken green eyes, enchanting me.

My lips pull in a humorless grin, quickly fading. I could sense my heart beating slowly, thumping in my chest, pumping blood to every cell in my body. The problem is, I can’t feel it. I can’t feel the emotions going through my body, I can’t feel the heartbreak.

People say that pain is the worst thing that can ever happen to a person. I say that the worst thing is feeling nothing.

I get up from my curled position on the couch that is upside-down, looking at the mirror straight across the room. The person in it is clearly me; the same raven hair, grey eyes, pale skin. Yet I don’t see the same me. I don’t see the happy person with a plastic smile, I don’t see the mask I’ve built the last fifteen years.

I see the real me. I see the doleful person that had been hiding under those layers of masked emotions. I see the raw pain, anger, hurt and depression in my grey eyes. I close them, not wanting to see the unwanted emotions flicker in the depths.

I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. Getting up, I left the coffee and the cigarette on the coffee table, not bothering to pick them up.

I licked my dry, chapped lips and continued to the bedroom of my apartment. The bedroom is even worse than the living room - it’s filled with even more memories. I close my eyes again and I could almost hear his deep chuckle mingling with my giggle. I could almost imagine both of us cramped up together in a corner of the bedroom, laughing and telling stories about each other, and when we run out of things to say, the silence is always comfortable and welcomed.

But of course. Who am I kidding? He’s not here, and he’s not going to come back. He’s not going to just waltz back into my life and turn to dust the stomped pieces of my heart. Oh no. He will live with the knowledge that he had broken all of my walls, that he had gained my trust and then he had broken me.

Not that he would care. He hadn’t cared then. Why would he start caring now?

I could feel bile rising up my throat. I abandoned my bedroom and quickly entered the bathroom. Emptying my stomach, I clutch my abdomen and sigh, slumping against the bathroom wall. Quickly finding my pack in the back pocket of my jeans, I extract one cigarette from its confinement and light it.

“Why do you smoke?” He asked me, looking at me with this almost puzzled look on his face, as if he’s trying to figure me out.

I shrug and dragged another breath, feeling the nicotine relax my system. “It’s food for anorexics like me.”

Remembering the bitter-sweet moment, a chuckle broke through my chapped mouth. The laugh was hollow and empty, almost to the point of being bizarre, but I reveled the sensation, I enjoyed the raspy scratching.

I enjoyed feeling.

Getting up from my spot, I flush the toilet and again head to the living room. Seeing the cigarette I left there still unfinished, I cursed my forgetfulness and decided to just put out that cigarette.

I sigh as I flop into a very un-lady like position on the couch. Still puffing on my cigar, I switch through the poor choice of channels. Finally settling on a channel with some music playing, I swing my leg back and forth, trying to animate myself. I follow the scars on my wrist with my fingertip, feeling the cracked skin below and thinking about it. About the first time I cut.

At first it was uncomfortable and it tingled and burned, and the cut wasn’t even deep nor long; it was just enough pain to let it all out, to let the emotions and sensations run through the gap. A thin line of a maroon color appeared on my wrist. The cut was itching and it was painful, but the temporary mental bliss I felt at that moment felt so relieving, like all of your thought and emotions and mental pain are flowing out of your mind through the little blood drops on the sink.

And finally I felt at ease.

Even though the long sleeves were hiding all of my wounds, people still found out, people who presumably cared about me found out and they hid every single razor in the whole house. I felt no control. I felt the need to experience the relief.

I felt trapped.

So I found a solution. I could constrict my eating habits and I chose that. I chose having control.   

As weeks passed and days gone without eating anything, I felt tired. I had no energy left to fight.  

It was all planned. I would take all of my mother’s pills and gulp them all. I would lie down on my bed and a note would be attached to my family. That I have given up.

But a person came in my life. He popped my bubble without me allowing him to do so and made me laugh. Made me accept him as a part of my life. As time passed and weeks went to the better and my meals became bigger, I was ready to love him. I was ready to make my heart commit suicide and I was ready to fall.

And just as I was to love him unconditionally, he showed his true colors.

Such a cliché, right?

I learnt that the person who was standing beside me was not who I imagined him to be, he was not the person he presented himself to be.

Instead of the kind, loving, slightly egoistical boy whom I gave my whole heart, there was a dark, smirking, cold and hollow person that didn’t care about my feelings.

Feeling the numbness explode in my chest, I got up from my seat on the couch and turned to go to the bathroom. My wrists and thighs were itching me - a clear sign that I should do the thing I do the best.

Picking up the razor from the counter above the mirror, I looked at my reflection and pursed my lips, wanting to just disappear from the face of the planet. I clutched the razor in my hand, feeling the sharpness in my skin. I looked down on my rugged wrist, seeing the white old scars and the pink new ones form a sort of painting or a pattern.

“They’re like an old map,” He said with affection in his voice, tracing the lines with his warm fingers. “I was always interested in discovering more cities and more countries. But this time,” He lifted my wrist to his mouth, softly kissing the scars. “I don’t want to fill in more information.”

As I slid my razor across my wrist, I could feel my knees wobble at the familiar feeling. I could feel all my emotions and all my numbness going out and it was the best sensation in the world. I continued going deeper with each cut, each cut making the same feeling.

But this time it was different. There wasn’t just the old, good feeling of harm. There was something else, something that made me want to drag the razor even deeper in my skin, make even more scars than usual. I’m not sure it’s a good thing. And I’m not sure if it’s a bad thing either. As long as I could feel, I am grateful for everything.

Dark spots aligned my vision and I collapsed on the bathroom floor. The last cut had been unbelievably painful and unbelievably good, and the mixture of them both had my red blood gushing out of my system. Biting my lower lip, I watched the drops line of blood spread on the tiled bathroom floor while listening to the music coming from the living room. I know that this was it, this was the end.

I know that this will finally set me free.