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Bethany

Untitled

Copyright, Bethany

It started tiny. Just a safety pin that was no longer quite so safe. Just little drops of my blood. It wasn’t long before I discovered the scissors. I became a different person, becoming more and more creative in ways I could hide my forever reappearing scars. The blood was comforting. I didn’t want to stop, I didn’t want anyone to know. I played volleyball three out of four seasons so my wrists would be exposed. That’s when I started cutting my breasts, that was the only place others would never see. I’ve only been cutting for three weeks.

Untitled

Copyright, Bethany

I don’t think people are capable of understanding. It is beyond them. Some grow sad and worried and I hate that. I’ll never forget the look on my best friend Alex’s face when I told him I knew where the marks on my wrist had come from. He looked so surprised, worried, I hate that look. But I hate when they yell too, and tell you how stupid it is, it just makes me angry and when I get angry enough I do the only thing that helps, I turn to the blade. But it’s been a year now and I’m finally scared. I know that the only way to stop is when I’m six feet under but how many more times can I drag the blade. When I started they were small marks, hardly broke the skin, resembled cat scratches and were always on the top of my wrist, easily hidden by my watch. Though now I’ve moved strictly to the bottom and they get deeper every time. I used to feel numb when I did it, but now it hurts so bad. But it’s my secret, mine alone, they could never understand that when I look down at those marks across my wrist that I feel a certain fondness. The blade always so nice, like with every cut it lets the pain flow out, it lets it flood like a river of blood. My name is Bethany, and I’m a cutter, ironic that everyone things such a horrible thing when it’s the one thing that makes me feel as ease.

 

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