I don't want to die.
I don't even want to be sick.
I just don't want the past to hurt me anymore.
Or reappear in the present.
Sheer disgust washed over my body, my mentality, as I chose which area of my left wrist to slit open. Only slightly. Only enough to see blood. My intention wasn't to pass away from blood loss or create a visible mark others could see — this was about me and it stayed private. It always did.
This wasn't the shit people wanted to hear about. Or know. I inconvenienced everyone enough by just existing, a never-ending problem, a long road leading to an disarray of a deadend.
I was twelve years old. Humiliation in class pushed me into a deep end that cutting could only help me swim to safety. It was my first time; I would grow to never forget my crush's intimidated smirk as he feigned an apology for hitting me in the head with a bottle of water.
It wasn't something I knew how to do instantaneously. Or maybe it was. All it took was seeing it on TV to understand there was a way out of feeling too deeply. It was the kind of passion people lacked for a good reason.
Did it work? It made the pain dissicipate as I stared down at the red mark created by a pair of scissors.