Summary: What would happen when it wasn’t enough?
Author’s Notes: Mentions of self-harm and suicidal thoughts. Trigger warnings.
The words rang through her head, hours, days, and weeks after they had been said. It could have been a passing comment, it could have been a remark that they had said behind her back – or when they thought she was out of earshot; and even the times they screamed at her, mere inches from her face. She would remember those words every night. Every time that she felt less than happy with herself.
She would cry herself to sleep at night, and no one would notice. No one would notice that she was upset, ever. There was no one that really cared for her. In the morning, she would pull on the same pair of battered jeans that she always wore. Why? Because they were the only jeans she had now that fitted her. She would wear one of her hoodies that were, originally, too big for her, but now are getting close to fitting perfectly or getting too tight.
Disgusting was a word that the demons would say to her in her mind. She was bigger than she had ever been, but wanted to get rid of it. She wanted to be able to look at herself in the mirror and like what she saw. She had convinced herself that no one would love her, ever.
The boys that had showed her interest were only looking for one thing, one thing that she wouldn’t give up because at the ripe age of ten, she had been handed her first slice of what men were really like – how cruel and cold they could be. How manipulative people were.
She never looked back at that.
For that age, her innocence had been thrown into a vat; she had been burned and didn’t want that to happen again. She was small with a stutter, no confidence in her voice. She just wanted it to be over.
Some nights she thought of ending it herself, ending the suffering that someone had caused her. Ending what should have been ended when her family ignored the signs that she had been abused by someone they had allowed to stay in their house.
She hid behind the one thing she could, the books and the fantasy worlds that shielded her. She dreamt of being taken away, going to these far off places, becoming a child again and having her innocence back.
Her world was shattered once again when she was broken further.
At twelve she had felt the hands of her first physical abuse.
When she was at school, she was nervous and had questions she would never want to ask, she was smart, but not exceptionally. She couldn’t do some simple things, but she excelled in English, the only subject that had ever made sense to her.
He grabbed her up by her neck, squeezed hard, leaving a mark against her neck, his hand, he lifted her from the ground, but no one cared. Teachers walked by and ignored what he was doing to her. She felt the life slowly leaving her, and, some part of her, wanted that. He threw her to the ground when she was nearly passing out and walked away with his girlfriend, laughing.
Through culture and television, she discovered what self-harm was. For a while, she was too scared to do anything. It was painted as a way for people to want attention, but that’s not what she wanted, all she wanted was an escape, she wanted a release.
She’d punch walls at first, slowly building up to hurting herself.
At fourteen, she first held a blade; the light cuts on the top of her hand gave her a rush that no one could explain. She had done it there because she was too scared to do it on her wrists in case she went too far.
People noticed the cuts, people smirked and told her that it was a way of getting attention and mocked her.
She was beaten up later that year, and the whole school watched as she was pulled to the ground, kicked, clumps of her hair were missing.
Only one teacher stepped by and helped.
She could never tell her parents what had happened; it would somehow be her fault, like everything else was.
Scratching became her weapon of choice, no one could see them up her arms, they left no marks.
Later, she started biting, enough to break the skin slightly, it would hurt and she would cry, but she knew this was fading off the pain of her memories, it stopped her being as sad as she was at times. It helped with stress.
For a short amount of time, then it didn’t help, and like an alcoholic, she needed something stronger.
Her father had Stanley knife blades in his garage. She’d stared at them, thinking that they could do something for her that the biting couldn’t.
She was right.
At first, it was scratches with the blade, breaking the skin, occasionally reaching to the layer before blood, thin bloody scratches would break out all over her right arm.
That wasn’t enough.
She started focusing over cuts after she had made them, digging into her skin.
The first time she saw blood, it was a rush, a relief and something in her broke. She needed to keep making herself bleed, because it was the new release she needed to calm her down, to make her feel as though she was in control of something.
College made it hard for her, she’d wear a bandage on her wrist, she knew people were probably theorizing about what happened, but she never cared. She needed it.
What happens when those cuts, the scars, they’re not enough?
What happens when she needs to do something more?
Will the stress pile up so much that she shuts down? That when she’s crossing a busy road, she walks in front of a car, like she had thought about so many times already.
Will the addiction stop with death?