Words (Muke)

Three: Cope

"There's a time to inhale. And a time to exhale. And a time to just scream it all out,"

~Anonymous

Michael knew he shouldn't. He knew it, but he just couldn't help it. He knew there had to be other ways, better ways, but he just couldn't help it.

The cool metal rested on his mutilated wrist, but did nothing to ease the burn of anticipation for what was to come. He just wanted relief. So without another thought he applied the tiniest bit of pressure and the blade ripped open his soft, delicate, porcelain skin and blood slowly bubbled up. He pressed harder cutting deeper and the blood came out faster.

A soundtrack of all the hurtful things he had been called played in Michael's head and his own sub-conscious chanted along with it. He recalled his dad's fist against his jaw and his cheek and cut his skin again.

He wanted to stop, he wanted to flush the blades away and get help, but Michael was drowning. And this was the one thing that helped keep his head above the choppy water. He cut around the cuts from yesterday morning, cutting mercilessly. Michael wasn't just drowning, he was lost at sea. And nobody was coming to save him from himself.

Each cut bought him a breath of oxygen, but at a costly price. He was addicted, addicted to the blood that was now beginning to form a small pool on the floor by his knees, addicted to the pain that put his mind at ease. It's like a drug to Michael, a drug he couldn't quit. And like any good drug, he knew one day he could take it too far and land himself 6 feet under.

Michael couldn't care less.

He stopped when he ran out of room to cut. Stopped when his porcelain skin was ripped and blood was seeping all over the place. He was careful not to get any on himself as he stood up and stumbled the few feet to the sink. Michael was light headed due to the blood loss, but he didn't mind, it meant his thoughts were slowed and subdued and Michael could almost see a glimpse of his previous happy-go-lucky self before he was clouded over with darkness.

Michael woke up an hour or so later on the floor of the bathroom. His blood has dried on his wrists and the cuts have stopped bleeding. Michael knows he has to attend to his left arm, needs to bandage it, but he's still dizzy, it could be from the blood loss or maybe it's because he hasn't eaten anything, but the eighth of a muffin from the shop Luke works at.

Michael forces his body to move and stands in front of the sink. He washes the dry blood carelessly off his wrist reopening nearly all of the cuts. He reaches under the sink into the cupboard and takes out the large roll of gauze. Michael wastes no time in wrapping the gauze around his forearm, and quickly stashes it back before he leaves the bathroom, dragging his feet as he walks to his room.

He's tired.

Not physically, or mentally. But Michael is emotionally drained. He finally feels numb, and he can't seem to make sense of his surroundings. He's lost and disoriented and he hates that he's not alert and aware, but it's his method of coping. It's the only way he can turn his brain off for even a little while.

Michael likes numb, but the side effects might just kill him. And Michael can't find it in him to care if he does.

He wants to sleep quickly, before the reality of what he has just done hits him. He was twenty-nine hours clean and everything. Not that that's much of an accomplishment. But Michael knows that when he wakes up he'll be horrified with himself, he'll hate himself even more and he knows when he gets home from school tomorrow it's almost a guarantee that he'll do it again.

Michael's just trying to cope.

Michael's tired, but he's not sleepy, so he sits on his bed and does his homework like a good little boy, but Michael is anything but good, he's riddled with bad. It lives in his bones, and his blood. It makes up who he is and he can't escape it.