I pierced the blade into my tight ivory skin and let the blood
run. This time I was going to let myself go. This time I wasn't
going to live. It was this cut that would finalize my life…
Inhaling the salty air of blood, the temperature was thick in the
room. The fade of my eyesight was taking over. So I closed my
And then I lost myself.
My name is Bianca Withers. I'm a freshman in high school…I'm
fourteen years old. School was never the place for me, and still
I like to think I was a cutter since birth. I would pick up
blades and slash my arms, laughing. I don't know why, though. I
liked to do it. It got worse in kindergarten - I would cut, and
then suck the blood out. Kids thought I was weird, and isolated
me to myself. They would yell ''Vampire, Vampire!'' in the
playgrounds. I would just mind my business, hiding in the bushes
with my sharp scissors I would bring to school.
The whole cutting thing carried on as I got bullied. Several
girls in middle school used to call me names. After school, they
would corner me and jump me until they got tired of my
helplessness. I got used to it. After I walked home, I washed up
so my mom wouldn't see me. And then I took a sharp blade I got
from the dollar store - and cut.
In the eighth grade I noticed I wasn't the only person who did
this…I met two of my best friends, Kali and Britney. Before then,
I didn't know what friendship was like. I mean, one day they just
walked up in a pair and asked me what my name was at lunch, and
started chatting with me. I guess they must have sensed who I was
just seeing me.
They didn't tell me they were cutters right away, and I didn't
tell them right away either. But whenever we did, it felt like a
''So, do you cut?'' Kali asked in a casual manner while we were
all on a three-way phone conversation.
I took a couple seconds to answer, but it was then that I knew
they were both cutters just like me. ''Yeah, you?'' I asked them
anyway, to keep the conversation still sparking.
They told me a lot about their cutting experience. Kali started
cutting when she was 11, Britney at 9. I was a bit shocked at how
young they were - I mean I seriously started cutting at 5, but to
know anyone else had started out in an odd age group startled me.
My mom never sensed anything about my ways. I always put on a
front for her to think I was that little angel of hers. In the
meantime, as I told her, every Fridays I was going out with Kali
and Britney, which I was. But not to go to the mall or
movies…just to sit in Britney's bedroom cutting and listening to
screamo music. It was our way of hanging out. And no one
else had to know.
Those were my friends. And if I ever lost them, even
one of them, I would die.
* * *
My dad left when I was 5, after he found out I had been cutting
myself. He saw the sharp scissors in my book bag and burst in my
room as I was watching Tom and Jerry…one of my all time favorite
shows as a kid. I don't know why I liked it so much…
He gripped my hand tightly and lifted the sleeves to my nightgown
''Daddy, please! Why are you doing this?!'' I would whine as he
did so. He saw the scars on my arms, and the new fresh cuts I had
created in the last couple of days. He stomped downstairs and had
my mother by her wrist. I whined again. ''Mommy, daddy was
looking at my arms!''
My mom just looked at him, fear in her eyes. She broke out of his
hold, rushing to me. Grabbing my arms she examined the cuts. She
looked up at me, a worried expression smothered onto her fragile
The little innocent angel I was, I smiled at her, and said,
''It's only cuts, mommy. It will heal. Promise.'' I kissed her
forehead and turned back to Tom and Jerry.
Then, my dad grabbed my mom's neck, and smacked her in her face,
leaving a flash of mahogany red on her cheek.
Before leaving he said, ''You're a useless tramp. You let my baby
girl slash herself. And I'm leaving you, you good for nothing
broad!'' He gave her another slap, and this time my mother lifted
her hand and gently felt the red spot. It looked as if her cheek
was burning. She looked at me sympathetically as tears streamed
down my eyes. I ran for my dad as he walked out and down stairs,
tugging at his pants. He kicked me to the ground and said, ''Get
away from me. I'm not your daddy. If I was, you wouldn't be
raised to be a mental kid.''
This is why I remembered this memory so vividly.
I used to think he would come back for me. But as I grew older,
and time passed, I realized this wasn't going to happen. It took
me a while to not care.
And now I could care less if he came back or not.
And actually, if he did come back,
I would just say ''get away from me.''