Cut Up And Scarred

#2 ~ This Is Not What It Is; Only Baby Scars

Scars.
Like painting a canvas with fingers in paint. Like decorating skin with a blade in blood.
Everything means something.
In the end, the things that matter to us are the only things that exist when we die.
Because they're the things we don't want to leave behind, but we are letting go of - willingly or not; because they're what's kept us here long enough to attach ourselves emotionally to them; because we are human and we need to be loved back;
And because unrequited love can turn you into a monster.
We love and cherish things, valuable or sentimental or not, we grow close to completely random objects and people.
The gold ring wrapped around my finger that won't come off; not because I didn't want it to but because it was stuck to the skin. If I ever lost that, I'd lose a story for a conversation; a tiny place in my chest that felt kind of full when it caught my eye in the sunlight from my window; the pain when I concentrated enough to feel how it pinched my porcelain skin; and words I'd forgotten in my memory but still kept subconsciously inside.
But people hurt more than objects. Because we armour ourselves with words as well as weapons.
I'm not sure if they hurt more when we lose them; if/when we find them again; or when we still have them.
Sticks and stones may break your bones but words still fucking hurt.

"You shouldn't do that, you know?" An empty voice for an empty soul.
The blade kissed my skin and blessed the blood that it let flow from my skin.
I grunted a yes but didn't turn my head and didn't look up.
"You could die of blood loss." He stated so bluntly again.
My eyes turned a little misty, glazed over with words I wanted to voice; but I sadly couldn't to my fragile, depressed roommate to which I shared my 'cell' with.
"We could die at any moment," I blinked slowly, revelling in the temporary blindness of the dark which comforted me. Oliver usually kept the light on for fear of the dark and what was hiding behind it. I had told him that first night I discovered his irrational fear, "The dark can't harm us. We harm ourselves in fearing it. There is nothing in this room but you and me and maybe a few spiders. But where the real monsters hide are behind our eyelids where we create the most twisted ghouls and horrors we can imagine. There is nothing to be afraid of but what you can picture inside your mind. You are fuelling your own fear. For what? Instinct? For self-preservation? We are civilised human beings - some of us anyway in this hellhole. So why do our instincts not change when we have over years?" Back then I had had a problem with an over-active imagination and speaking my mind bluntly about what I thought of everything. I remembered the feeling of having to stop before I sent him into a coma with my little lecture.
I quickly snapped my head around to look at him, my arm extending and my fingers pressing into the soft tattooed skin of his throat as I pinned him to the wall. The red colour of the rose inked there reminded me of the blood.
Tattoos reminded me of bruises; blood under your skin - but ink.
"There are security guards outside our door. Nothing can get in and nothing can get out." His voice was steady and sure but his eyes were - as-usual - flecked with the hazel colour of fear. Not fear of me maybe, but of what could - couldn't - happen. Nothing ever happens to those who want it.
You want to die? You live. Simple.
Fate.
But Oliver didn't want to die. He very much wanted to live. Weren't we just polar opposites? I remember meeting him and scaring him away for a week. He would barely eat, sleep or do anything in the same room as me. At first, that was how I wanted it.
I had always been alone. Except for my hallucinations and delusions.
But I knew inside that they never left me alone. Some I welcomed for the company and conversation but others would drive me to the point of 'self-medicating' as the doctors here called it.
They thought that I hurt myself physically and emotionally to try and piece myself back together - like a brutal, cruel motivation to get better.
They were wrong.
But of course I didn't tell them that. Like they'd believe me. A hallucinogenic institutionalised patient like myself?
I didn't think so.
"Oliver," I whispered; my voice sent him shivers - I could feel it from just his presence right in front of me. I smiled sadistically. "Behind you." I breathed, leaning close to his ear.
His eyes widened in fright and sent daggers around the room, his gaze whirling around the walls for his demons. From the looks of it, he found them.
A psychotic madness fell into his eyes like the dark brown hair over his face.
He sat in the corner of the little bathroom that lacked about everything a bathroom needed to be a bathroom. Patients were allowed barely anything for fear of harming him/herself and others. His legs were pressed tightly to his chest, his arms hugging them even closer and he buried his face into his knees. He cried out silently; like he was really being choked. By them.
I knew I wouldn't have been able to see them like he could so I didn't bother looking around the room and at the walls, but I could see his fear and why he was so afraid.
They were always there, if not where you can see them on the walls, then where you can feel them in your head.
I leant down, resting all my balance and weight on my heels; rocking back on them. He looked up, searching for comfort and shelter.
I knew I couldn't really take them away but I lifted him up in my arms and sat him in my lap. His arms clutched around my waist and his face crushed against my shoulder. His shaky fingers trembled in desperation and gripped my shirt; and his eyes were tightly shut.
"It's okay." I cradled him closer.
I knew what I had done was wrong. Some 90% inside of me. But, hard to believe or not, 10% was in complete control over my actions most times.
I was such a prick to Oliver.
It's funny how we push away and hurt the ones we love so much, the ones we need most and the only ones we have left.
Don't I just know that so great? Other than Oliver, regret and remorse were my best friends.