At times I see a small boy, short and gaunt, standing at an awkward angle. His shoe laces are undone and his school bag lies at his feet. His hair falls over his eyes and his bottom lip trembles. At times he tries to blend in, to fade into the crowd. He tries not to draw attention to himself, but it doesn't work. He plays with his finger and looks at his feet. He wishes the kids wouldn't push him around so much. He wishes he was weightless like air, but wishing gets him nowhere.
It hurts when I see that boy. It hurts when I look into the mirror.
It hurts when the blood stains the tiles and the razor falls to the ground. Crying hurts my head and chest. Everything constricts. Everything aches.
My pastime is addictive. I feel maybe it sets me apart from everyone else. It's like the ability to win every single sporting race or being the best at comedy. Maybe I'm just good at being the boy with the cutting problem.
My scars have been reopened. My wrists cry tears of blood. My skin begs me to stop. The pain is becoming unbearable.
My head says slitting my wrists is the only way to feel human; alive.
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James Mandarin
Ficção Adolescente"Everyone has secrets." James has a problem; he cuts himself. He is in love with his best friend, Chloe, but is too afraid to tell her. His father is attracted to the bottle, and his mother wears fake diamond rings on her finger. James' world i...
