Sick Sad World

I got my last bag out of my car and took it into my apartment, putting it down in my room. I started to unpack everything, putting it all back to the way it was before I left. I came across my razors while I was unpacking, and I felt the sudden urge to use them. I laid them all out, my little rectangular one, my long slender one, and one I had taken out of a box cutter. I finished putting my things away, and then picked up my razors, taking them into the bathroom. I stepped on my scale, looking down to see how much I weighed. 80 pounds.
I groaned and got off my scale, pushing it as far away from me as I could. I hated it. It always told me I was too fat. I looked in the mirror, lifting up my shirt so I could look at my stomach. I was so fat. I looked at my face, revolted at how hideous I am. I took a towel and threw it over the mirror, blocking it from my view. My scale and my mirror were like constant reminders of how I would never be skinny, or pretty, or perfect.
I got out my razors, staring at them. I smiled as the light bounced off of them. I laid them down on my bathroom counter, taking a seat on the counter beside them. I criss-crossed my legs, and picked one of the razors up. I put it against my forearm, where I usually cut.
Then I dropped it. I knew I shouldn't cut, I knew it was bad. But lately it hadn't really even been about making me feel better about my problems. It was more about the fact that I felt like I had to. Like something inside of me was craving this. The feel of the blade on soft, clean skin. The sharp, familiar pain the razor brought. The bright red blood that oozed out of the cut and down my arm. Standing out against the pale skin of my arm, like a bright light in a black room.
My fingers were itching to hold the blade again, my skin was craving to be cut. I swallowed hard and picked up the blade I got from a box cutter, and put it up to my arm. Then I thought of something, and moved the blade down to my wrist. I positioned it in the nice crease in my skin that was made from where my skin bunches together when I turn my hand towards me. I had cut there before. I had a scar from when I had done it, too. I had had to go to the hospital because I sliced my vein open.
I figured if I did it again, I would probably die. So I pressed the blade down into the crease, and moved my arm quickly. A sharp stinging pain, and beads of blood were all that was left to show that the blade had even been there. I looked down at my wrist, it was barely bleeding. I hadn't cut deep enough. So I put the blade back in the same spot on my wrist, quickly moved it once more, and stared at my wrist. A deep cut was visible, and blood was running down my arm. I smiled to myself, and laid the blade on the counter. That was the last thing I did before passing out.

Love,
Brenan. xoxo
(x's = hugs, o's = butterfly kisses)