Fresh Relief

The short pain is welcomed by a moan of relief. I drop my razor to the floor; I've no need of it any more. Its job is done for, for now: until tomorrow when relief is needed again. I slump to the floor, the fresh relief overwhelming my weak knees. Blood oozes freely from my severed wrist. I watch as the blood pulses from my mutilated wrist. I close my eyes allowing the pain to throb. I now have some reality to my life. No need to question my waking hours, I have pain to show I’m awake.
I stare to my wrist once more. It usually stops bleeding around about now. Not this time. The blood keeps coming, faster than usual. Oh god! I've cut deeper than usual. My haste to find sweet relief has made me forget to concentrate on how deep too cut. “I’m home!” shouts my unknowing mother who is back from work. ****! I've got to stop the bleeding! Where’s the razor gone? I can’t find it, there’s too much blood on the floor. This can’t be all mine, can it? “You up son?” calls my mother. She’s coming up the stairs! No, no please! Go back downstairs!
I jump to my door, hiding my numb arm behind me. “Yes mum, I’m here. I’m going to have a sleep so don’t make me and dinner.” I call to my mum. That was too close! Now, how the hell am I going to stop this bleeding? Pressure! I grab my dressing gown and press it to my forearm. Please god let this stop. I stare at my bedroom floor; my normally blue carpet is red. How has that much blood come out of my wrist? I only cut 2 inches across! My t-shirt it ruined, there is far too much blood on it now. My world begins to spin. What’s going on? I haven’t lost enough blood to go woozy! Have I?
****! I stagger to the bathroom. I stare at the pale stature in the mirror. Eyes wide with fear face gaunt from lack of eating. Do I really look that bad? How has nobody noticed? I stare dumbly at my arm, the bleeding has slowed. Thank god for that! But now the bathroom looks like a murder scene; blood on the floor, sick and in the bath. How did it get in the bath? I grab a towel and soak it to mop up the blood. “Ey up cocker, you alright?” My dad calls into the bathroom. ****! Leave me alone! “Yep everything’s alright!” I call back.
He knows something. I can see his shadow from under the door. He’s still there! “Son, come out, I've seen your room.” He says sympathetically. He went into my room! Why the hell did he go into my room? I sigh. At least the bleedings stopped. Mostly. I unlock the door and my dad enters. He has tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry dad.” I tell him, a lump growing in my throat. He grabs me and drags my into a tight embrace. “I was going to tell you, I just didn’t know when.” I lie. I was never going to tell them. Why should they know? I’ve hid this for months.
My legs buckle from under my legs and I hit the deck. I think. I just remember my legs going from under me. I blacked out before I hit the floor from lack of blood and food. I woke up 2 days later in hospital, tubes attached to me, heart monitors bleeping. Life support. Great. The one thing I don’t want, to be kept alive to face the darkness I've faced for so long. What can I do now? Just sit and take it? No chance. I pull the needles from my arms and hands. Rip off the heart monitors and try to sit up.
I know I’m awake because the agony of skin ripping tells me so. What are you doing? A voice asks me. You are ******* stupid, get back into bed. It tells me. That’s when the doctors came in, drugging me. Stopping me from escaping.
maca510 maca510
18-21
Jan 12, 2013