The Last Cut

November 1, 2008
By Anonymous

editor's note: names have been changed.

It was well into the night as I sat in the middle of the untarnished carpet, still able to see the perfect vacuum lines. I laid there silently in the fetal position, cradling the glistening silver razor blade in my hands. I ran my fingers along its smooth, cool surface, inviting me to join its cruel parade. Adrenalin ran threw my veins, igniting my soul. Slowly and gently, I lifted my shirt, admiring my artistic carvings. A smile grew on my face. I approved of my punishment and was eager for more.

I slowly turned my left arm over and I was angered by the lack of cuts on my arm. You could barely see the scars, which angered me more. Everyone needed to know that I was useless, and without those scars, I was less than nothing. I needed more, I yearned for more. Still holding my silver friend, I grabbed another blade, thinking that two was always better than one. 'It's time to get creative,' I thought to myself. I closed my eyes, imagining what pain I could inflict on myself this time. Something more. More deeper, more painful, and more shameful.

In my head, nothing was ever enough. I saw my arms covered in zigzags, mocking me with indescribable hate. I opened my eyes and looked at my wound covered stomach again. The words 'fat' and 'useless' stared back at me. I hated that I craved these words into my own flesh, but it was what I deserved and what I desired. There was no need to cover my scars, for there were too many and they were always a constant reminder of what I was and what I needed.

Holding the two blades, my hands shook with tremor. I inhaled a deep breath and pressed the blade against my pale, snowy skin. Slowly, I dragged the blade diagonally across my skin, creating a crimson river on my arm. I dragged the blade further up, even slower, so I feel my punishment, my gruesome reward. The blood came to the surface, my eyes gleaming in awe. The blood dribbled over my arm, slowly dripping onto what was the untarnished carpet.

I stopped half way up my arm, gaping at my work. 'No, this is not enough,' I thought to myself. 'I want my body to be covered, I want everyone to know that I'm nothi'.' I was interrupted by my door jolting open. I was greeted with terror filled eyes of my mother. I froze in shock. I was unable to think and to breath. My mother screamed and ran to my horror scene.

'Ellie! Ellie Ellie Ellie!'

My breathing increased, as I ready myself of a panic attack.

'Baby. Why? What could be so bad?'

I let out a sob of agony, the kind that hits like a bullet to the chest. This was the first time I had cried in 3 years. My mother held me, and rocked me. For once, there was no argument, no yelling. All there was was love.

The author's comments:
Since this moment, I've gone to rehab and now in recovery. I just want to say thank you to my family, friends, therapist, and youth pastor for support.

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