It Is Unleashed

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is what I think; how I feel. This is what really happens, not what other people tell you. But everybody is different. My name is Samantha. Sam for short.

Submitted: April 07, 2008

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Submitted: April 07, 2008

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  Nobody understands us. Who we are. What we do and why we do it. They think it's just a game. A game that's played for pure enjoyment. Like entertainment. But they don't really know. And they really don't want to take the time to find out. What you see on the outside isn't who I really am. Who we really are. We're a mask, all combined together as one. We don't hang out with each other because of our differences. We barely talk to anyone. And if we do. We don't metion it. It's not something to carry around like a trophy. It's not a prize for that game we're "playing". It's a curse. A cloud that hangs over our head wherever we go. And we don't like it. You may think we like the darkness because we wear covering clothing and dark colors. But we hate it just as much as you do. The darkness.

That mask is my disguise. Our disguise. It shows everyone that we're fine, that there's nothing hidden. But they don't care enough to look past that mask and see what's really there. We don't have perfect lives. We don't have bad ones either. We just choose not to like it. Or maybe others choose for us. Friends. The meaning of the word is familar. I have a few. Or at least I thought I did. My secret did get out. There was no use in wearing what I wore every other day. But I did. Because I still didn't want anyone to see. Nobody understands. Whey should we care for them if they can't take a little time out of their perfect lives to care for us? But is it a perfect life for them? They could be wearing that same mask that I do. But how would I know? I wouldn't. Because I can't look past that.

I hate it when people ask to see them. And that when you do show them, they laugh at you and say, "those are just like cat scratches!" So what? So what if that's what they look like? I still did the mistake. I still did the horrible thing that got me in my position in the first place. I still felt the pain. I still felt the relief. I still felt the blood rush to my head. I still felt it run through my fingers. And no matter what they look like, they're still there. This is the way I cope. With my feelings. With my grades. With my so called best friends. With the people who make fun of me because of who I am. For what happens to me at home. And yet no one understands why. They might just not be smart enough. Or they just might not want to try. But that's not my problem. I already have too many to deal with.

I don't even understand myself why I do it. Why I want to do it. It makes me feel like I'm better than people give me credit for. It gives me the strength to make it through the whole day, and then when I can't go on any longer, I do it again. I don't like the pain. I don't think anyone does. But no physical pain could ever outnumber the emotional pain. It's as simple as that. And it's right. It doesn't. I would know. But even though it does, I can't help thinking that maybe it doesn't help. It does take away the pain, and hands me relief. But the situation stays the same. And all I do is just keep doing it until my wrists are raw and only my legs are left. Then I move to them. When they become raw, my wrists are back.

I believe that we only have a short life. Sure there are people who even live past one hundred. Those are called miracle people. I'm not one of those people. You probably aren't either. They are people who don't do anything with their life. They don't take risks. They don't go out. They don't have fun. Because they're so god damn worried about living longer than everybody else. I'd be happy to die at the age of sixty for all I care. At least I lived. But I probably won't. You might not either. But that's not for me to decide. I can't decide anything. I have no choices, no options. I have nothing. My parents are gone. My brother is a perfect little boy. And what do I do? Nothing. I can't do anything. They won't let me. Nobody will let me. So I turn to nothing. I'm in the shadows. I'm in the darkness. Waiting. Hoping that the light will move ever so slightly and shine on me. It's been 16 years. I don't think it ever will.

I get stared at in the hallways. It's something I'm used to. I have brown hair with the tips black, and high layers that stick up in the back. My overly large bangs cover almost my whole face, and I wear my hood up all the time, with my hands tucked in under my stomach and my sweater sleeves pulled down over my hands. My teachers know. My therapist knows. My parents know. My brother knows. Everybody knows. And yet nobody tries to help me. I'm left alone in this world, and nobody is out there to save me. It's like everyday when I walk to school I'm getting closer and closer to the edge. And sooner or later, I hit that edge. I'm hanging off, and everyone sees me. But there is not one hand. Not one.

I get home, my eyes wiping the tears from my eyes. A whole bunch of eyeliner comes with it. I run to the bathroom and shut the door, locking it behind me. The tears are falling now. They slide down my cheeks and down my neck, into my shirt. They stay there, never to be removed. All my shirts are stained with those tears. I look into the mirror and see my reflection staring back. Slightly red eyes, and black lipstick. My eyeliner is smeared, and my bangs cover the whole right side of my face. I gasp for air, and turn on the sink water. The sound soothes my body, but I'm still not satisfied. I choke and gag, sobbing harder than I ever have before. I open the toilet and try to gag, but nothing comes. Nothing comes up, and only the tears drop into the water.

Drip, drop, plip, plop. One by one, even all at a time, they drop into the toilet creating ripples of water sent out towards the far edges of the bowl. I scream and throw the lid down. I grab the soap from the shower and throw it at the door. It sticks there for a few seconds, and then begins to slide down, leaving a soapy trail with it. I'm still crying. I can hear myself. The sobs are enormous, and I'm scared. My brother would be here in an hour maybe, and my parents wouldn't get home until late. I was completely alone. I still felt them. The tears. They keep sliding down my face endlessly, and they just wont stop. I try to wipe them away but more come and I'm out of control. I look around frantically until I spot something. The thing I've been looking for.

I roll up my sleeves, the scars in clear view. Fresh. From yesterday. I grab the razor and run it under wet water. Then I dry it completely, leaving it sharp and glinting. Then without hesitation, I lean over the sink, tears still running, sobs still bursting out from my throat, and press it to my wrist. There's a slight pause where I place it right where I want it; need it, and then I tear it across. There's only a slight sting, and then another sting as I begin doing it in a line up my arm. I'm screaming, crying and wishing. I can't stop. I need to keep going. The blood is pouring from my open wounds. It flows into the sink, creating a pool of blood. I slice again, and again, and again. It's never ending. Soon the first wrist is filled, and blood is flowing down it like a waterfall. I'm still not satisfied.

I move to the next wrist and slash away, the slight sting not there anymore. I'm so used to it that it's just not there. I'm so numb. I can't feel anything. I heard the door open, and my brother call my name. But he doesn't hear me. I can't even hear me. But I'm still screaming. I'm still crying. The tears are still falling from my face. I hear the tv turn on and I slash and slash and slash until that wrist is done. Finally the sobbing stops, and I spit into the sink. The tears stop falling, and finally I'm calm. I'm relaxed. I've felt relief. I'm completely satisfied. I run warm water over my cuts and then dry them, only a little bit of blood still coming out. I shove my sleeves down so that they're hidden. Then I wash the razor, put it back and then turn to look back in the mirror. My name is Samantha. Sam for short. And I cut. I cut myself.


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