Shortish Story Thingies
I really need help on these!! Give me all the input you can and I'd appreciate it. Most of them are just things I've written that I wouldn't really consider poetry I guess.
She stood weeping at the top of a large business building. She took the stairs up instead of the elevator because it would be the last time she would ever use her legs again. She took a deep breath and pulled her hair out of her eyes and looked over the thick cement ledge. Rows and rows of reflecting glass windows ran all the way down to the pavement. She hoped that she wouldn't be able to see herself falling in the windows. She had just lost her job in the very building she was planning on diving off of. Her and her boyfriend broke up, and her mother called just to say that she was disappointed in her. Her name was Emily Joan Willcott; she thought that it would look nice in delicate font on granite. She slipped off her high-heels, they were her favorite and she didn't want to ruin them. She looked down and saw a little girl bobbing along with a doll and her mother. She wanted that so badly, but with her luck in relationships, she'd never have children. That moment was the last straw. She stepped up onto the ledge and looked to the sky. The thought about how when she was a child she wanted to be a bird. Well, this was her chance to try and fly… straight down. She spread her arms and tipped off the building. She thought that she was falling away from her problems, but she didn't expect something to happen, but I guess fate doesn't care what you think, it happened anyway. Instead of seeing her past life before her eyes, in every window she passed, she saw a scene from the life ahead she could have had. First was the job of her dreams, the one she'd been chasing al her life. Next, her mother finally respected her decision in passing up a job that her mother saw fit to chase her dream. Then she saw her future husband, John, that loved her unconditionally and that she loved just as much. The dinners and parties flashed by where everyone told them that they were a match made in heaven. Emily always agreed to it and then John would always kiss her in agreement. Next came two beautiful, bright children. She watched in agonizing longing at the trips to the park, the homemade cookies, the boo-boos and the pigtails. She was amazed and wanted that life with all of her being. She wanted to hug her mother, kiss her husband, and hold her children. She was on the path to the life that she had always dreamed of all along. In the next window all those people waved and faded away. The next, a funeral with a crowd of grief-stricken family and friends. Her name looked cold and cruel in granite. Her mother was on her knees crying and apologizing. Steven, her ex, threw a rose into her grave and whispered that even though they weren't meant to be, he really did always love her. Her boss wasn't there, he was on the roof of his business staring at the ledge in horror. Emily screamed, “I want my life! I take it back, I love my…!!!” But the pavement stopped her last words short. And somewhere, a man named John cried for no reason that he could detect, and two children's lives were snatched from them. Emily, lying broken on the ground and with the tears still wet on her cheeks, died.
Hooked On Slicing.
First I need to tell you that the is not a story about myslef. I put in experiences from my life to fill in gaps and add a hint of myself to the story. This story is for my friends, the strangers that have cried on my shoulder, and the ones that helped me understand. I want people to learn from this story because I don't want this to happen to any more people. Help is out there, Don't be afraid.
It seemed like it was only five seconds ago that I had done it. Maybe because it had just happened about five seconds ago but all I wanted to do was distance that moment as far away from myself as possible. With all my being I wanted to try to forget that I was covered in blood.
For you to truly have a chance of understanding what has happened I need to tell you my story from the beginning. I was seven and a normal kid with friends and a family, and had a love for school and art. My brother was about two years older than me and I guess, along with what was going on in my head, he was the reason I started.
My brother usually made me feel left out and useless, but isn't it normal for an older brother to pick on his little sis? But it didn't stop there. He would yell at me and stare at me with grave, cold eyes that let me know he hated me. I didn't mind the bruises and bleeding as much as I hated him glaring at me with those ice-blue eyes, burning with loathing. Between his fist and those eyes I'd rather he beat the hell out of me. I used to tiptoe around just to avoid his anger. At this time the only doors in the house with locks on them were both of the bathrooms so I used to lock myself in one of the two to try and wait out the hurricane. With him, though, any calm was just the eye of the storm. To make myself feel somewhat better as I was curled up, crying on the bathroom floor with the mirror reflecting the somber blue curtains of a locked window, I would imprint these little mantras into my head by repeating them to myself.
“I was bad so I got hurt…I was wrong…I deserved it…I was bad…” over and over and over again. They still swim through my head whenever I do something wrong. It made me feel like things were okay, it was provoked and things would get better if I could just get things right.
After a while of hiding in bathrooms I started to play with things to get my mind off of my brother and those eyes. Things like brushes, hair ties, pins, cotton swabs and shaving cream. I knew better than to mess around with pills, and actually there weren't really many around the house so that I would be in danger because of them. Around that time when I was seven I picked up my fathers shaving razor. It was black and had two blue grip strips running down the handle. The next thing I knew there was a thick, dark trickle of blood running down my finger into my palm. I sucked at the cut still clutching to the razor, the cut was deep and hurt very badly. Moments went by and I realized that I had forgotten about my bruises and my brother and those irises plagued with despise. All I thought about was the self-inflicted pain. From then on I was hooked… hooked on slicing.
After that I found little tricks that would hide my dark little secret. Small cuts on the insides of my elbows and the joints of my fingers didn't leave noticeable scars. Climbing trees seemed to be an acceptable excuse for bandages. My parents teased me and told me that I'd better start playing with dolls more before I break something. I didn't realize that then I was already broken.
When I was eleven I had just sunk deeper and deeper into a sapphire pool of hurt. My brother had even tried to kill me… twice. The first time we were swimming in a little pool in the backyard. We were playing but I wanted to get out. My fingers were shriveled and I was tired but he still wanted to play and got mad at me. He shoved my shoulders downward until my head was fully underwater. I could see his wavering face with teeth clenched and eyes burning. I can't remember how long I was under but I got dizzy and all of a sudden saw streaks of red coming from somewhere on my face. I think that's what scared him and he let me go. My nose had started bleeding and I could barely climb the ladder out of the pool. My mother saw me on the porch and scooped me up. Nose bleeds were a frequent for me so this wasn't strange at all.
The second time was no better. I was in my room when he came in. He yelled at me because he had gotten in trouble for shooting holes in a sheet hanging on the laundry line with his bb gun. He was hitting me and I don't remember when I decided to do it but I slapped him. His blue eyes stared at me for a moment with rage. He pushed me down onto my bed and he grabbed one of my pillows. He took one last, hard look at me and covered my face with the pillow. I reached frantically and tried to push him away. Was I going to die like this? No, because for just a second he let up slightly on the pillow. I thrust my arms forward and got just enough air to scream. He picked me up and yelled at me for screaming. He slapped at me and just stared… but I saw something more than just that hate, I saw fear.
After this I was being pushed down the stairs and spent many nights just lying, curled up and battered on the floor, I had had enough and I wanted to die. I was beginning to believe that I was nothing more than a useless waste of human flesh and that everyone secretly hated me. I went in the bathroom but I didn't lock the door this time so that my family would have an easy time finding my body. The only way I could think to kill myself was to slit my wrists. How much does a kid know about killing themselves at the age of eleven? I sawed through my left wrist, crosswise, with the same kind of black and blue razor that had become my release just a few years before.
It seemed like the blood ran forever and my whole arm hurt tremendously. I couldn't go any farther, I was afraid to die. All of a sudden I knew the full effect of regret. I ran to the door and locked it. Spinning frantically around the bathroom I wrapped my wrist as tightly as I could in a towel. I was surely going to die this time, wasn't I? I cried myself to sleep on the floor, the white walls emitting the dismal blue of the curtains to the small, locked window.
The sound of the doorbell woke me up… I was still alive. Disturbing the blood-soaked towel made me bleed a little more. I used gauze and tape on my wrist and rolled down my sleeves. I buttoned the wrists even though the feeling of that tightness on my left wrist made me want to scream. I opened the front door to reveal my mother standing there waiting with an arm load of groceries. I helped her, thinking of what I had almost done to her. I pictured her setting the bags down on the porch, coming through the house calling for me, and then finding me, her child, curled up lifeless on the bathroom floor. She would have had to clean up the blood; she would have found the razor with flesh stuck in it that would have been desperately clutched in my dead hand. How did I think I could do that to the only people that loved me? Would my dad have cried? I didn't dare to picture my funeral. I made sure to tell my parents that I loved them that night and every night after that.
You'd think that episode would have turned me off of slicing but it didn't. I couldn't live without the pain even though I knew that I didn't want to kill myself. I found new ways to torture myself. I took needles to my face and passed them off as little zits I had picked. Behind my ears, between my toes and anywhere else I could hide scars I'd cut there. It became my addiction by then and every aspect of my world started to collapse. I was slipping in school, my friends were shunning me and the more I pulled into the indigo corners of my mind the more no one cared. I felt like I was disappearing and the only thing that kept me connected to being human was the pain.
My nightly and sometimes daily slicing became like a ritual. Most cuts were well hidden like I have told you, but some became more visible like carved hearts and stars kept secret only by my knee-high socks. After a while I didn't really cry that much anymore. My mind and body would just be absorbed into my sick habit. When I was confronted with fits from my brother I would just bite open the inside of my lip, suck on the blood, and wait until I could get to one of my stashes of blades.
My slicing hit it's all time high when we moved away from the house I had grown up in. I began to care less of being secretive and scars moved down onto my forearms. The change of scene wasn't what pushed it, and my brother had let up on me. The problem was me and the fact that I had to pretend to be a whole new person. I bought clothes that I disliked and made me sick when I saw myself wearing them. One of the worst was a pair of khakis topped off with a white, button-down shirt and a blue sweater. I looked like I had gotten peeled out of a trendy clothing store commercial. That's fine for some people but it wasn't me. I wore my hair in pigtails, used pink lipstick, talked different, acted ditzy, and shoved my true self into the back of my mind.
Changing myself didn't really win me a lot of friends, though. I acted like them for nothing and when I looked in the mirror I couldn't see any remnant of myself. My arms were always covered in scratches now and the excuses became my cat, looking for something in the barn, and walks through the woods. Everyone accepted them and went on with their lives but I couldn't go on with mine. I started to carry one of those rectangular, flat blades from a box cutter. It went everywhere with me either in my folded sock or shut into my compact mirror. If anyone discovered it the popular excuse became that I used it to sharpen my eyeliner with it. They believed that, too.
Sometimes I would get so fed up with pretending to be happy that I'd just zone out for a whole day and let my mind shut down. I even began to play sick so that I could sleep all day and have a mental break. Then it was back to school to the people that hated me. At lunch I sat at the back table with my few friends. We were the mutants, the ones that didn't fit in anywhere else so we were clumped together with no labels or stereotypes. I think that was one of the reasons that we stuck together. Once I was asked to sit at a different table and I'll never forget it. I sat next to a tall, blonde girl with a pink, cooler lunch box. I didn't eat, I barely spoke, and the rest of the people at the table seemed oblivious of me. The next day I was considered a traitor at my usual table but with those guys almost anything was easily forgiven. All of us wanted the chance I had, the chance to maybe finally belong and be categorized. I never sat at another table again and that was, for the most part, eighth grade. That year I learned that nothing was happy or nice or sweet anymore.
That summer I spent almost exclusively with one person, a friend. I lovingly referred to her as my best friend because she was the only person that I found comfort in, she was the only person that seemed to care. She was wild, unique, exciting, and just a bit demented which actually made me feel better because I knew she wasn't perfect. She brought me out of my shell and I found my new favorite color…Black. Actually, the funny part is that black isn't even a color, it's that absence of color and absence was the perfect word for me then. For the first two years of high school I wore almost nothing but black and donned black lipstick. I made new friends but I still looked down walking through the hallways and I didn't talk much.
Somewhere along the road I became a little paranoid and believed that everyone thought the worst of me. Every time someone laughed or snickered I thought it was at my expense. I longed for acceptance and tried to smile. Everything and everyone seemed meaningless… then I met Him.
He was the most incredible person I had ever met. I could be my true self around him, completely and honestly me. I never thought I'd see myself again but there I was. I let him read my poetry and he actually understood what I was trying to get across and how I felt. I adored him and I think that that adoration is what drove him away. It seemed like he wanted to be with someone normal, someone pretty and happy and someone that just wasn't me. He illuminated my life for one small moment, then that compassion burnt out and he was gone. I even drove my best friend away; I couldn't stand being close to anyone anymore.
One dreary day the sky as a sickly blue that warned of storms to come. I just sat broken in the woods, not able to cry or scream or feel sorry for myself. I couldn't feel anything or think anything at all. I don't remember how long I sat there but I sat on through the storm not being able to register what was happening around me. I decided that I couldn't show my true self to anyone ever again because whenever I did that person would go away. I continued slicing but I guess I didn't realize that I was also slicing away at my soul. The only thing that I had left was my writing and that couldn't hug me or soothe me or take the scars away. I was empty, totally alone and scared.
I needed help but I wasn't about to let my parents know my grotesque flaw. I didn't want them to be ashamed of me. The last thing I needed was for my parent's hate. Professional help was out of the question because they'd tell my parents. I did the only thing I could think of and turned to the warm hum of the computer. I spent many hours touring the advice chat rooms looking for anyone that could just tell me that things would get better, that I'd be okay. I met veteran slicers, new slicers, and people that were just curious. People told me to paint wounds instead of hurting myself. That didn't work because the pain that I was addicted to wasn't there. Others told me to bruise myself rather than breaking the skin but it reminded me too much of those childhood beatings with those eyes cool with contempt. I talked to the room made up of nothing more than script and icons. It made me feel selfish for needing these peoples time. I felt pathetic when I heard people talk of worse problems. It wasn't enough to fix me. I felt better for mere hours, but I yearned to just be happy.
I made a hobby of analyzing people and picking them apart from afar. I paid attention to everything and was connected to them even if they didn't know I was there. I came to the harsh realization that I had become to live vicariously. I held people in my thoughts and heart but experienced nothing on my own anymore. I hated myself even more for this. I painted a large, blue flower on my wall sprouting crude, sharp, drifting seeds. I called it my bloom of sadness. I would stare at it and think of all my sorrows, like remembering the exact moment to each of my scars and thinking of that desperate feeling of helplessly wanting pain. I wondered many times how many of those sorrowful damaging seeds had taken root in my heart. Remembering Him I painted in one of the leaves a different color. It wasn't fair to count my whole encounter with Him as a sorrow. It was hard to choose a color, though. Any shade of blue was out of the question. Black was my comfort color and He was more than that. Red reminded me of blood and pain, but He had never hurt me. Yellow… yellow was light, the sun, celestial. He was yellow. Now it was my bloom of sadness and salvation.
Things started to seem better. During my third year of high school career I think that people started to get used to me. I made more friends and my brother calmed in his maturity but that piercing feeling of rejection was still there. I added more yellow petals to my bloom. One for a friendship repaired, some for accomplishments, and one for a dance. The flower soon spread across my small wall and was yellow with only tips of blue. I still couldn't rid myself of the dark roots in my heart. I revealed myself more and more but there were still small things locked deep within my soul. Sitting alone at lunch, seeing best friends and couples, and realizing that I was only one of one. I was accepted but I couldn't feel like I totally belonged because my scars held me apart and reminded me of how different I really was. What I thought was my release was the bane of my existence and I was reminded of it daily.
Nothing was good enough anymore it seemed. Not at school or home or in my own mind. Slicing still ruled my life. I gave and gave until I couldn't even force myself to smile anymore. Then I was discarded and left even emptier than I had been before. I looked at facing maybe two more years of high school instead of one and I don't know how I could have let myself slip so badly. I wanted to go to college but who would want me now? Everything just piled up. Deaths, failures, depression, stress, slicing and I forgot about work.
The next “nail in the coffin” was when spring came and love was in the air. The one I loved probably considered me dead. More of my insides were scooped out and I was hollowed once again, left desolate and crying inside. I felt trodden down by the people I loved but I couldn't feel betrayed because I was the one that laid down to die. I longed to feel whole again. Was it possible to be complete ever again? Why couldn't I be happy? Why couldn't I be the person that I wanted to be? I let one solitary thing stop me and that was the blade. More than ever I wanted to die but more than ever I wanted to live and just be normal.
My flower of salvation made me angry when I looked upon it. I was ignorant to think that I was ever that happy. I turned it back into what it always was meant to be, a bloom of sorrow. I even painted over Him. I coated my mirror in the same muddy-blue paint. I couldn't stand to look at myself ever again. My eyes were blue, too and I began to look at myself with the hate I had seen in my brother years ago. I wouldn't let myself love anyone else because I considered myself unworthy of anything that could make me happy. I somehow wasn't deserving of the life I wanted to live. Why didn't anyone notice me dying? Why did they let me disappear? Couldn't they see me slip away?
One night I cut a deep groove running from my neck to my elbow but I needed more. I sliced from my toes to just above my knees but it still wasn't enough to distract my mind from my life. I carved spirals into my legs and slashed across my chest but the dose of pain needed to be stronger yet. I shoved needles through the cartilage in my ears and down my fingers then sliced open the bottoms of my toes. Somewhere in the mess of blood and metal I snapped, cutting and slicing at my face, arms and hands. Almost anything that was flesh I made bleed.
It was five seconds ago and I'm still sitting here soaked in blood and pity. My tears roll down and burn in the cuts on my cheeks. The pain is massive. Can you understand why I did this? Think they'll accept any excuses now? Now is the time when I pass out and dream sweetly of times when I knew nothing of being hooked on slicing.
Charlotte, Shelly, Chad, Jake and Becka - I luv ya.