James Mandarin

7am

I hate mornings because that is when pain becomes my shadow. It overwhelms me like a hot blanket as reality sets in. It is then I notice I'm on the bathroom floor with blood on the baby blue tiles. It is then I see the blood clots on my arm and the bloody razor on the ground.

I killed myself last night and I will not stop. I shall do it again,

And again,

And again,

Until something happens.

What that something is, I do not know.

7am is when I hate myself because I know I cannot stop what I do. 7am is when I clean up my mess before the knock sounds on my bedroom door. Morning is when I wipe my blood off the tiles and dispose of the red tissue into the toilet before pressing flush.

7am is when I break and cry.

* * *

The warm water washes the blood and grime from my skin, as my salty tears mix with the soap. I shouldn't have done what I did last night. I should have said no. I should have been stronger.

I should have said no.

I am weak. I am pathetic.

I should have stopped. I should have stayed away from the bathroom.

Why didn't the walls tell me to stop? Why didn't I do something else?

There is no answer, just the sound of water hitting my skin and pooling at my feet.

My wrist is red, swollen.

My eyes are wide and puffy, like mum's pies. I step into my clothes. Wearing a jumper is difficult. I don't like it when the material rubs my scars. It's irritating and makes me feel dirty. I resist the urge to remove the damn thing, knowing removing it would be a death sentence.

Everyone has a secret. This is mine. A secret is meant for a person only. It is not something to be shared or talked about. My secret is my shame. My shame is my disease and my disease consumes my soul.