Letters to Myself 4

June 7, 2011
By , miami, FL

The clicking of my fingers hitting the keypad of the phone. Texting. I get a reply. I’m sorry if I ever broke your heart. Too bad. You didn’t. My eyes were watering, though. Tears were running down my cheeks now—No. I will not let myself cry over a boy. I held back the rest of the tears and took my phone with me to my bathroom. I sat down on the floor, opened the back of the phone to the battery, but that’s not what I was looking for. My eyes rested on blade laying on top of the battery. It was a pretty good hiding spot. The blade was extremely thin, like paper, and small, a little triangle the size of a quarter. I got it from Michael’s. Or rather, stole it from Michael’s. It fit perfectly into the phone. A place nobody would guess.

My shaking hands lifted my pajama pants to reveal my scar covered thigh. The pain was taking over me now. I grabbed the blade and, pressing as hard as I possibly could, I slid it across the side of my thigh. The cut was very large, 4-5 inches long, about half an inch wide. The blood started spilling out, dripped to the ground, after a minute creating a crimson puddle on the ground. It was coming out faster than usual. The cut was larger than usual. I stood up, the pants falling bag to cover my blood covered leg. In seconds an enormous scarlet stain formed on my pants, and it was growing fast. I opened the bathroom door and walked into my mom’s room. “Mami. Mom. Wake up.” A whisper; Nicky was sleeping next to her. I shook her shoulders. Her eyes opened and looked into my eyes.

“What?” Her voice was groggy.

“Can you come to the bathroom with me?”

She seemed more alert now. “Yeah.” She got up and followed me to her bathroom.

Once we stepped inside I told her “I think I made a bigger cut than I expected.”

“Let me see.” Her eyes went down to my leg. I lifted the hem up to just above the cut. She gasped and jumped back. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god. These need stitches. I need to show your dad for a second opinion.”

We walked to the kitchen and found him there drinking a beer. “Rufo,” she said. That’s what she calls him. “Show him.” She looked at me.

“I don’t know if I should—”

“Just show him.” She quickly interrupted.

I lifted up the hem of my pants. “Oh my god!” He jumped back.

My mom made a worried sigh. “Come on, Nati, were going to the hospital.” Nicky walked out of the bedroom, rubbing his eyes. “Nicky, were taking Nati to the hospital. We need to go.” She told him.

“What? Why?”

“She cut too deep. She needs stitches.” This must be so scary for him.

And it most definitely was because soon enough he started wailing, the tears flooding out of his eyes, his face reddening with fear.

We all got into the car, me holding a paper towel to my leg with pressure because my mom said so, and drove to the Children’s Hospital.

We walked into the emergency room, and soon enough they called out our name, which is the thing I was dreading because I was so deathly afraid of the pain of getting stitches.

So blah blah blah I got stitches blah blah I'm too lazy to explain the whole thing and it hurt even with anesthesia so…yeah.

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

Site Feedback