I Apologize for Leaving You
I've had my fair share of disapproval from my habits of self-harm. I can understand it, of course, but my motivation is nothing like that of others who share this habit; I don't do it for the relief, or whatever it is most people use as their explanation, I do it for the blood. When I first started, it was just to feel the pain. I started with a sewing needle, I'd run it over my skin, leaving a scratch. Of course, soon, this wasn't enough, and it didn't take me long to use blades. I'd get them out of pencil sharpeners, and I'd simply make shallow cuts, these ones producing blood. The pain was marvelous, and there's really nothing more satisfying than watching the little beads of blood seep out, then fall into drips, creating that graceful crimson stripe over smooth flesh.
This, of course, makes a mess, and once I ran out of things to mop the blood up with I'd simply bring my tongue upon the wound, using my mouth to soak up the warm fluid. The taste is indescribable. It varies from person to person, but my own was pure bliss. Coppery, slightly bitter, sharp, and simply perfect. It was so satisfying, so delicious, such a thrill... I simply couldn't stop. It wasn't long before my arms and thighs were covered in cuts, some overlapping when I couldn't find a new place to make a quick slice. The flesh was almost raw, butchered; it was agonizing to touch, and terrifying to look at.
It was as though I'd mutilated myself horribly, and I have to admit, I loved it. I loved the look, and I loved how the cuts would frequently open, allowing me a taste of the blood I loved so much with far less effort. Soon, this habit became an addiction, and I simply couldn't go without that marvelous rush of pain and incredible taste of blood. My clothes had to be adapted to fit, and soon I wore nothing but long sleeves. This went on for months, with me always desperate to get home to my blades, roll my sleeves up, and get another taste of that brilliant red delight I'd become so used to.
There came a time when I wasn't satisfied with the shallow cuts I'd make, and I soon acquired a new tool, a switchblade. It served me well, and soon my cutting had extended from my limbs to my tummy, and even over my chest. By this time, I'd acquired friends, people who easily noticed my habits; they certainly did not approve, and most urged me to quit. I disregarded them all, continuing this anyways. It was too good to stop, it felt so good, it tasted so perfect, it made me feel so accomplished--it was almost empowering, and I absolutely loved it.
I loved the way I created such carnage on myself, I loved the way it looked; sometimes, when I had enough space of healed skin, I'd bring a needle and threat upon myself, piercing myself and even making stitches in myself. Now, eventually, this whole episode passed, and I quit cold-turkey. The worry of my friends was enough to stop this, and I set fire to my switchblade, melting the handle and dulling the blade, making it useless. It had been weeks since I'd last cut, nearly a month. I'd had a few close calls, where I'd scratch at my skin, leaving little streaks of pink where I'd have peeled off a little layer of my skin, but never once brought a proper blade or even a sharp edge upon myself. It's been too long. I couldn't do it anymore.
I made up for lost time. I didn't quit, I absolutely mutilated my flesh. It wasn't enough. I wasn't satisfied this time. Looking down on myself, all the blood that flowed from each deep slice... it just wasn't enough. I'd used a serated kitchen knife, the only one that worked. It didn't cut deep enough, although half the blade was buried in my flesh, it didn't hurt bad enough, even though it was agonizing. No... I wanted more. My own blood wasn't enough to feel that satisfaction again, my own flesh wasn't enough to feel that pride that came with causing such damage. I needed more.
That's why I did it. That's why my own blood wasn't all I tasted that night. That's why my simple kitchen blade's now taken a life. That's why there was such a bloodcurdling scream from outside, that's why I've brought the body home, that's why my best dress--once white--is now a dark crimson. That's why the basement is in flames, that's why I've told my sister and my mother that the chinchilla got out and they had to chase it outside, that's why I type this as I send the pets outside before they burn along with my mistake. That's why I've got the taste of a late girl's flesh on my breath, and that's why I'm afraid I'll soon be gone.
I can't be caught, I'm staying in this house, I'm staying in my room. I'll burn. Her flesh inside my tummy will burn along with me, no-one will know.
I had to tell you, I couldn't leave you in the dark. You've been with me from the start, and now you've been with me until the end.
Goodbye, I'm not sorry. This whole experience was pure ecstasy, if only I could live to do it again.
Death greets me warm, now I will just say goodbye
This post was soon followed by a disclaimer, saying it was simply a piece written on the author's fantasy. It had several people convinced, and was met with quite a fuss, hence the explanation for it, I assume. Still, I decided it might be fun to post here, as the first time I read it it had me rather nervous and uneasy.