Slowly I dragged the blade across my wrist once, my skin remained un scathed as I pulled the blade away, it seemed it had not been as sharp as I thought. I winced as I dragged it across again, this time a crimson line rewarded me, I suddenly questioned myself, did I really want to die? I gasped as I covered my slashed wrist with my right hand, yes I had used my off hand and a blunt pocketknife I used for carving sticks when I was bored, which let's face it was a while. I sadly smiled as I listened to my favourite song play, Tourniquet by Evanescence, it was around halfway around right when the fateful words were said "I want to die" but this was a lie, I was not sure of anything only a darkness that claimed my mind, forcing my joking self into a corner. If you were to describe my mind it would be a void with a small patch of dim light with a tall girl who was reasonably stocky with pale skin, freckles up her arms and across her rounded face, dark brown eyes with reasonably long purple dyed hair that sat at the small of her back where a raven tattoo rested, to guide her lost soul. My clothing style, well that is an easy one, not in fashion. I was quite content with my jeans, normally black, a dark t-shirt or more often a tank top with a gothic bat cross necklace with a braded leather chain around my neck, and my favourite globe skate shoes, I only resented the pink on their soles but as many say, nothing in life is perfect, I was not even close.
Now I was not a scared girl, hell no I made things fit what I wanted, controlled the situation with violence, a rather high pitched voice that seemed to laugh often, or a crazy cackling laugh that mother said made me sound like a witch, I never listened to her, after all she was the one heavily into pagan rights, personally I found faith in one view made all others lose their good pointers and seem worse than they really were, my faith was in myself. Lately however I had settled for a whispering voice never looking people in the eye and trusting nothing. I was put on some medication for me feeling sick, as a result I was jamming with Elvis Presley tonight, the basted hadn't shown but then again I had "forgotten" to take the medication. I sighed as I found an old white tank top to shred, after I did I tied it tightly around my wrist, it did sting but I was use to pain, not all emotional either.
Like all that society deem emo I liked darker music, I never found the attraction to Kesha and Katy Perry, I found a hatred for Justin Bieber. Yesterday I had punched the popular basted Eddie for bagging my taste, he had possibly the worst hair I had ever seen, based on Edward from twilight but the girls loved him, he was also a Justin Bieber fan and a hound, if he wanted you he simply walked up and kissed you with his dry pasty lips, he had tried that on me and found his nose needing attention.
"Emma dear" Mother called me, I had by then forgotten about my wrist as I sat with my guitar strumming a tune quietly, "And if I catch you coming back my way I'm gonna serve it to you" I sung quietly as I strummed the basic tune 7, 7,10,7,5,3,2 all on the A string, second from the thick deep one for all you non music wise humans, read a book for more information I don't have time to think this all for you, god a girl is always busy right now I was busy pretending I was playing guitar for hours instead of trying to die, funny sound that has, trying to die. I know a lot of people dream of dying and think it is easy I tell you now death is not a clean cut, it is a bloody mess leaving your family planning your funeral or cutting you up for dog food, I had written a note with my funeral plans wasn't that nice of me?
"Oh Emma dear you're playing guitar" My mother sang, she also had a rounded face with squinting eyes; I had taken my father's wide eyes. Her hair was cut short and blonde; yes her natural colour so dumb as a blonde suited her, not this time however. Her brown eyes widened as she caught a glimpse of my bound wrist "Oh My God Emma what is this" she squealed, I closed my eyes and turned my head away; dooms day step father was coming.
My father had dark skin, a thick featured square face and large eyes, they matched his nose and even more so his gut, yes I was a pale African American get over it. He fixed me with his dark brown eyes and I swallowed, the whiff of booze tickled my nose. Father did not hesitate, he lifted me from my bunk bed covered in black blankets and threw me over his shoulder, I saw my guitar hit the ground as Father took a step, my sickly grey carpet, I also had ill painted white walls which I had hidden with posters and pictures.
Our house was not exactly a house, it was a trailer that my family had built on over the years, my room was cold, my window often leaked, I sighed as I looked to an Evanescence posted on my door, next to it I had another poster for One-eyed doll, right now I felt like their song Cinderblock, an abused frightened young girl with a drunk stinking father carrying me. I allowed my vision to fade as his voice rung in my ears; I used my one escape from the torment, my mind. I allowed my mind to wonder to my let's call it happy place, I stood with rock heroes, I cheered with crowds to some of the greatest bands in the world, all the while my father was slapping me, his hand stung my face bringing weak tears to my eyes, Angus Young played a riff from highway to hell, it seemed my mind was strong, but at the same time weak. After all, I had tried to kill myself, I was weak.