I go home and look at myself in the mirror. Tears are streaming down my unkempt face and the voices in my head whisper ugly. I walk away from myself unable to continue looking. I lean against the door and try to contain my thoughts although some slip through. I remembered the old me. The me who was happy and loved my family. But that was years ago. I was different now. I wipe my face and take several breaths before facing my vicious family.
We sit down for dinner and pass food around the table. Everybody shares their day but when they get to me all I say is “Fine” and they move on as though I were just a spirit. After we eat I help to clean up but as soon as I’m done I go to my room. I lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling. The voices in my head were taunting me. Telling me how worthless I was and that nobody cared. Nobody loved me. Nobody even noticed my existence. I wasn’t pretty enough to be noticed. People might say they care but they don’t. It’s all just a big hoax. An illusion.
After a while, I was unable to take it anymore. I reach under my bed and pull out the box I keep there, hidden in plain view. I open it up and choose a sharp razor among the mess of others, holding it in my hands for a moment. The tears were coming faster now and the voices were screaming insults at me. I drag the razor across my arm and take in the beautiful contrast of red on silver.
I dragged the razor across my arm over and over again feeling a jolt as I realized that I wasn’t afraid to die. Death was inevitable and now just seemed like the perfect time. Nobody noticed me anyways. Nobody cared nor loved me. I felt myself getting dizzy and the blood dripping from my already scarred arm was creating a puddle on my white sheets. And just as abruptly as the pain started, it stopped. Ending with a dead girl and a bloody razor. Yet nobody seemed to care.
United States • 20 years old