The Night My Life Started

The first time I cut was the night my life started.

It didn't happen like an accident. I didn't suddenly discover cutting. I knew about it. And all I needed was one single event to push me off the edge.

It was early November, and though there was not snow the chill air bit me like savage dogs' teeth as I forced myself to put on my Happy Face on my way home from school. I was already familiar with the Happy Face, it was how I got through my time spent at home. The happy face was my entirety at times.

My mind had been spun completely out of control that day.

You know how some people say that you can always talk to them if there's something wrong? Well, they lie. They don't want to know your problems. They don't want to help you. All they want to see is you become someone you're not. And if you're ever not fake happy enough, they will take it on themselves to make you happy to their standards.

When I got home I stole a razor from my mother's dresser. It was a plain thing, but it would completely surprise me how easily a small sliver of grey steel would save my life.

I went through my normal routine at home. Work, homework, obligatory internet time, dinner, all that. I supposed I looked normal, but inside there was a feeling I knew so well; the feeling of falling to pieces. The actual physical sensation of falling apart from the inside, like I was too big for the body made from me, that I needed to release some of my soul from the prison flesh my parents made for it.

It was a Tuesday, so I had no need to wait too long for my "family" to finally go to bed. When I was sure everyone was sleeping I went around the house to make sure. Sneaking around at night was something I was accustomed to, so I had no problem avoiding creaks in the floor or skipping over the right stairs.

Everyone was asleep.

I crept back up to my room and closed the door, checked the windows, making sure the curtains were closed, and retrieved the razor from where I'd hidden it. Kneeling, handkerchief below my wrist, resting on my leg, all was ready.

I must not lie; it took some courage to make the first cut. But after that, I was rolling. One, two, three, four, all the way to fourteen. Blood leaked out of my arm, and I couldn't stop myself from bringing my wrist to my mouth. The metallic taste of my blood released all inhibitions, making me ruthless.

Done tasting, I brought down my wrist and wrapped it tightly in the handkerchief, binding the freedom I'd now given myself. The cuts hurt now, a stinging pain that blessed me, taking away the feeling of shattering and replacing it with calm.

Climbing into bed and turning off my lamp, I rolled on my side and cradled my abused arm. Relief, blessed relief flooded through me, and I began to laugh. Soft, sound chuckles that even I could barely hear. My mind was free; flitting from thought to thought with no provocation. Song lyrics would ring in my head shortly before a quote from a favorite book.

And for a while, all was calm.