!!! This scene contains harsh topic(s) that may be extremely upsetting !!!

Nathaniel Graham

The shower is running, I have a shattered piece of glass in my hand, and I am staring at the reflection of someone who is not me.

The stranger follows my moves, chest rising and falling at the same time I breathe.

We share the same everything; chocolate-brown, curly hair, electrifying blue eyes, and scars all over.

I want to scream at him.

My body needs to cry.

I don’t do either.

Tightening my hold on the makeshift-blade, I press it deeper into my palm until I feel a knowing warmth—the sign of blood.

Narrowing my eyes, I glare at myself.

Nearly the entire mirror is fogged up from the steam-filled air.

Perspiration plasters small sections of my hair to my forehead, and all the sensations and sounds are beginning to overwhelm me.

My head becomes fogged, clouded by the overstimulating thoughts racing through it.

Closing my eyes, I focus on the darkness.

Earlier, I had church, and we had a sacrament meeting where we spoke about God and sang.

I despise singing.

The sounds of everyone’s voices are too much, and sometimes it makes me want to tear my clothes off of my body and take my cracked mask off.

Bruises. Scars. Cuts. More scars.

I am ugly underneath it all.

Clutching the blade so firmly that it shakes, I strangle out, “Heck you.”

Sniffling, I lift my arm and hold the blade to my chest, hovering it over my heart.

Pursing my lips, I hold my breath, letting all my emotions drown me inside.

Then, reluctantly, I inch the blade closer.

It feels like a needle against my skin.

I drag it along my skin horizontally, and slowly, desperate for the pain in my body to silence the pain in my head.

The jagged edges pull at my skin, leaving a faint sting as I continue.

Small specks of blood begin to appear, and I push harder, forcing it into my flesh.

With clenched teeth, I tug the shard out and watch as red liquid drips down my chest. It tickles, and the exposed wound throbs with a familiar feeling.

I smile at myself in the mirror, although I am not completely satisfied yet.

After exhaling a heavy breath, I raise it again and repeat the action, except this time the cut is overlapping the other, and it is going up and down instead.

I pause when I reach the intersection point, hesitant to follow through.

No, who am I kidding?

Heck it.

Finishing up my work, I admire it in the mirror.

I carved a cross into my skin, over my heart.

Tears rim my eyes, though I don’t dare shed them.

Lowering my gaze, I stare at the now-tinted-red glass. A small droplet slips off the corner.

I toss it onto the counter, and my ears ring when a clink sounds as it hits the marble countertop.

A shiver racks my spine when the pain suddenly increases—or maybe I am just more aware now—and my attention darts back to the open cut.

Blood trickles down my bare chest and stomach, glopping at the top of my waistband, soaking into the fabric.

It hurts.

But is it enough?

Frustraion begins to build in my stomach, the pressure unbearable.

I am so used to the pain hurting myself brings me that it doesn’t faze me anymore.

How far do I have to go?

Turning to the shower, I make a rash decision to head over and push aside the shower curtain.

Adjusting the temperature, I turn it all the way to the right, all the way hot.

Inflicting pain on myself feels good. It brings me pleasure.

I shove the shower curtain back, then yank the other end open.

Right as I am about to step in, I freeze, the intensity of my situation dawning on me.

This is going to hecking hurt, but that is what I want.

It is what my body craves—what my head demands.

My head spins around to make eye contact with the blade sitting near my bathroom sink.

I understand that if I do not do this, I will retreat back to that and destroy my body further.

Facing the shower once again, I decide that I rather this scar than something else.

My feet feel like they are set on fire almost instantly when I step into the tub.

I wince, cringing internally.

Somehow, I manage to get myself under the water, my entire body protesting against me.

Frantically flailing an arm around, I lean slightly toward the wall of the shower. Body trembling, I sqeeuze my eyes shut.

“Damnit!” I shout a beat later, anger and sadness mixing together in my chest.

Opening one eye, I peer down and see the outbreak of bright red, blotchy skin—patches of it all over my stomach and legs.

The water is red, too.

But it eventually fades back to a light pink, mostly clear.

The tension in me eases slightly when I dig my nails into the wall, dragging them downwards.

It only takes another few seconds before I snap out of this daze.

Pathetically, I rush to twist the handle toward the left, causing the water to go freezing cold.

Chest heaving, I take a few steps back, my hair now soaked. While blinking rapidly, I glance around me, feeling panicked.

I huff out a breathe of air, feeling oddly accomplished—and refreshed.

Relieved, even.

It must not take death to feel alive, but only a little pain.

I am okay again, for now, I determine.

I am me.

The mask is ready to be put back on, and I am prepared to play the part.