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The Missing Piece

Preface
October 10


I ran furiously into my un-colorful bedroom, slamming my door behind me. I grabbed the glass vase with pink and yellow flowers inside of it and threw it angrily against my bedroom wall. I hated her! I hated her with every single bone in my body. The shocking statement my mother said to me couldn’t be true. It wasn’t. I refused to believe it. My sister’s still there. She’s still in the same, small warm room she was in before. I paced back and forth. The panic and shock still taking its toll on me. I couldn’t feel a thing. My body felt numb all over. Like I had been paralyzed from head to toe. The warm drops of moisture continued to fall innocently down my cheeks, despite the fact that I roughly wiped them away. My throat burned with due to all the sobbing and yelling I had been doing downstairs. All of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe. I felt as though someone had their bare, cold hands around the frame of my neck, forcefully choking the life out me. I held my hands around my neck, trying hurriedly to catch my breath. I knew I was having a full on panic attack. I needed to calm myself down or else I would probably pass out. I sat down on my bed, slowly, attempting to calm myself down. It eventually hadn’t worked.




























I quickly got up from my cot, abruptly, working my way towards the bathroom that was rather two feet away from my not so very bright bedroom. I shut the door furiously behind me, locking the golden knob before I proceeded with my troublesome addiction. Walking one step to the bathroom counter, I pulled the maple wooden drawer open by its golden handle, exposing a blue, blood stained wash cloth and a pair of black scissors. I took the two lifeless objects out of their position. Putting my back against the face of the cream colored wall, I slid down, landing my butt on the cool tile of the bathroom floor. Setting the items aside me on the floor, I pulled my legs up to my chest, placing my hands in my lap in the process. I clutched the scissors in my left hand, opening them up with both. Slowly I extended my right arm, placing the chilly sharp metal on the bare and vulnerable skin. Forcing the metal into my skin, I forcefully cut deep into the barrier of skin that protected the exterior beneath it. I slid the scissors over to the far left of my forearm, cutting as much as I possibly could. The red blood came oozing out at once, causing it to drip hurriedly down my arm to the crease in my elbow. I grabbed the blue rag that was sitting beside me, pressing it against the wound as much as I could to stop the blood flow. I wiped the gory red liquid that flowed freely down my arm. I stood up carefully with the scissors and rag in one hand. Turning the silver handle that lead to the water supply, the fossit rained with cool tap water. Placing the blue wash cloth under the running water, I rinsed and squeezed the blood out of it, making sure to not leave an ounce of dark red on the small square towel.

I shut the fossit off and folded the rag twice; therefore it became a smaller square than it was before. I placed both the contents safely back in the drawer.

I stared in the mirror at my horrific expression. I couldn’t stand the sight of me. I hated myself for doing this. Even more for not stopping myself or thinking about my actions. Looking at myself in the mirror, I knew from then on, my life would be nothing more but the fiery pits of hell.





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Sarita15 said...
Apr. 11, 2010 at 3:18 am

I really like this.  I love how you describe her physical reaction to grief, instead of focusing on her emotions.  And I like the last paragraph - anyone who's dealt with an addiction knows that feeling, that self-loathing for your lack of control.

 

My only criticism is to watch out for grammatical errors - for example, you mispelled "faucet" a couple of times :)

 
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