This is a creative post, I think…
Trigger warnings for: Blood, suicidal themes, cutting, and high intensity emotions.
This was written in one go, not checked, I’m half-asleep. But don’t be alarmed, I’m not at risk for self-harm or suicide, I’m perfectly safe. I’m just trying out something… Not new but something I haven’t tried to do in awhile. The whole thing will probably read like an angsty 14 year old wrote it. I haven’t tried to sharpen my writing skills in this kind of area since then so I suppose that’s to be expected.
He was so exhausted.
His core resonated with a dull ache that he couldn’t rationally explain. It made it so hard to breathe, so hard to think…
On the outside his arms and legs felt like they had been set on fire. Little lines of heat where minutes ago he drew himself reminders for his future… If he were to even have a future.
He still wanted more. He wanted it so badly, he wanted to lift the blade up and continue his work. But most of all he wanted to feel as though he could finally stop. All it would take was a little muscle and a lot of strength.
His arm twitched of its own accord, the nerves tickled by the warm trickle of crimson. He became aware of just how much that sensation was starting to manifest on his body.He contemplated getting up to clean himself off but quickly dismissed the thought. What was the point?
So he just lay there, in the silence of his dorm. The world seemed to slumber peacefully around him. A whole life was out there and he was well aware of that. People in different parts of the world were awake and going about their day. He was often in awe at the multitude of individuals in the world. In public he found himself wondering what stories the people around him could tell.
It was deeply ironic that someone who loved life so much craved nothing more than death. He valued almost everybody around him far more than he valued himself. A perpetual people-pleaser who was neither pleasing nor a people person. In his mind, the biggest failure he ever had been was to himself.
He didn’t deserve life. He often felt that his very being was a mere mistake and nothing more. He did not have a place in existence, he simply muscled his way into peoples lives when they made the mistake of letting him in.
The blood and the blade. That was his song, that was his calling. He wasn’t an artist, he wasn’t a thinker, he was hardly a person, but he did have those two things. To describe how he felt when he hurt himself was hard. He often heard others describe it being a release or a relief and he supposed he could agree.
But there was something addictive about the pain itself. The burning sensation that happened when he drew the blade across his skin, knowing by the feel of the pain when he was “successful” in puncturing his skin. The firey, throbbing sensation that followed. The tingling and tickling of his blood that ran when he did it just the right way.
He lived in those moments. But now those moments were gone and he was just laying there, on his dirty floor. He listened to the silence and he thought about all the reasons why he was there.
Maybe somewhere in the very distant future, he could stand to see the sun again.