This is an experimental piece. It's going to focus on a very touchy subject. That subject being self-harm and suicide. This is also the reason I'm posting it here. I'm giving you plenty of warning before you read this so you have lots of time to back out.
If the subject matter makes you uncomfortable, fine. Don't keep reading it, then. Just stop. I'm not in your house with a gun to your head making you read this.
For those that still want to read it, I'm not expecting you to enjoy one minute of this.
She stared at herself in the mirror for hours. Why couldn't she be pretty like all the other girls? Why did they have all the friends while she curled up in the bathroom crying every day at lunch? Why did her crush have to push her against the lockers and swear at her when she asked him out? Why did they all have to be so unabashedly cruel?
The girl stood there with a pair of scissors in her hand, still staring at her reflection. It was like her copy was daring her to do it. Slowly, she opened them, staring at the blades. Her mother had gotten her the large sewing scissors for Christmas one year in the hopes she would take it up. She had. She had even made most of her clothes.
The girls at school hadn't made as much fun of her after she had started making her own clothes. It was a small miracle. But they still teased her.
Shining steel blades teased and tormented her. She already had some scars on her legs. Any skirts she wore were always long so marks there didn't matter. Although...
One boy had looked up her skirt when she was walking up the bleachers to watch some sport thing the school put on. He sat with her the entire time and talked with her. He was the only one that knew. But he hardly talked to her. Hell, she hardly ever saw him. They had such different classes.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she made one long, slow cut into her right thigh. Blood quickly ran to the wound, pooling a little before slowly running down her leg. A few drops fell to the carpet, hitting old stains where she had stood previously. She always had trouble getting blood out of the carpet. But she was getting better.
The sharp pain that accompanied another long cut sent shivers down her spine. She wondered if she should be enjoying it. Or maybe if she should hate it with a passion that burned like the pain in her heart. Not that it mattered. The pain, the blood... It reminded her that she was very much alive. Alive and hating every minute of it. Times like this, she cursed herself. Cursed her pained existence.
Carefully, she transferred the scissors to her other hand. The scars on her left leg were much shakier. Being right handed meant they would always be shaky and a little off. But she cut anyway. The first one was a nice clean line. That put a bit of a smile on her face. She was getting better at this. Not once did it occur to her that it might have been wrong.
She just wanted them to stop. As though harming herself in secret was the answer. The girl knew damn well they would never find out. And they would never stop. Her hand shook as she started the second cut. It hurt more when her hands shook. But she couldn't stop the tears that ran in little rivers down her face and dripped onto her chest and carpet.
The girl was only able to make one more cut on her leg before grabbing a blade of the scissors and stabbing the other into her leg. As she fell to her knees in pain, she wondered in her mind what made her do that. The scissors cut painfully into her hand as she withdrew them from her leg. Blood gushed from the wound onto the carpet. She couldn't risk running to the bathroom today.
There was too much blood. She covered the wound with her injured hand and stared at her pitiful reflection. Her sandy hair was a mess, her blue-grey eyes were bloodshot from crying. Her face was bright red with pent-up pain and sadness. Her whole body shook as she tried to suppress the scream that threatened to spill from her lips.
Her free hand reached for a pillow, pressing her face into it. A long low scream left her, muffled by the soft pillow. The girl felt like a coward for not being able to take the pain. The girls at school would laugh even harder if they found out she was in the hospital from stabbing herself in the leg.
That made up her mind. It hurt, but she refused to be laughed at anymore. She already had something written taped to the mirror for times like this. All the blame fell to them. The way the teased her, tormented her, made her feel like an outcast. She blamed her parents for never really caring. Always being too busy with work to ask her how she was. She even blamed herself for being too weak to handle everything.
With her good hand, she took up the scissors and stared at them. Her blood glistened from the surface. With a few final tears, she plunged the arms into her throat. Blood poured from the wounds onto her body, the pillow, the floor. The pain was unbearable but she couldn't scream this time. She fell forward, driving them deeper.
It took a few painful moments before she mercifully lost consciousness. Her body fell limp not long after. Her last memory was her teddy bear which watched the whole scene. That last moment of clarity told her that he would be lonely without her before everything went black.