Scars

I've tried to kill myself three times. I hate the world around me. People don't understand the pain of watching your parents murdered. They don't understand the pain of your new adoptive parents accepting your little sister, but thinking you're an outsider. Isn't home the one place you should always fit in? But it's just like school. Where they make fun of you, call you names, kick you, make you afraid of them. I'm not afraid of only them. I'm afraid of myself. I'm afraid of what my fear and anger makes me do. I don't want to cut myself. But I do, because the blood reminds me that I'm human. The pain reminds me that I don't always hurt on the inside. Somebody steals my jacket today. My shredded arms are exposed. People stare at me as though I'm some monster who doesn't belong with them. They're right. I don't belong anywhere. But does that make me a monster? I hear the whispers. "He's a freak." "God, from all those scars you'd think he'd have just killed himself by now." I want to scream, "I've tried!!!" But would they hear me? I keep my head down, trying to push away the images of my razor-blade at home. I bump into someone, and she grabs my wrist. I look up at her, and when she reads the terror on my face, her eyes well up. She has my mother's eyes. I've never seen her before, but I can tell she doesn't want to hurt me. Kindness radiates through her. She pulls me closer and whispers in my ear while gently tracing the bigger marks on my arm. "I'd bet you all the money in the world that I've got more scars on the inside than you've got on the outside..." She pauses and looks straight into my eyes. Tears roll down her face. "But thank you for reminding me that I'm human."

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