It Needs a Name

Chapter 9

I stayed in hiding for two hours before I decided to see if it was safe to leave. I didn't want to leave my room; mother's outburst had scared me, it reminded me of when Dad would get in one of his moods. He would suddenly just start screaming at me, throwing things, anything he could get his hands on. I hated when people yelled, it was one of the few things that really shook me up, I mean to my very core.

I tiptoed to my door, crossing my legs and wiggling slightly. I had to pee. I could use a shower too, my hair was hanging in oily clumps and my face felt slick. Yuck. Yuck times two. I looked around my room for clean clothes and a towel, bundled my things together and took a deep breath. I had to leave eventually, and the chances of mother waiting for my outside of my door were slim. 

I reached for the doorknob slowly and when my fingers touched the metal I leaped back like I had just gotten shocked. This was fucking pathetic, I had nothing to be afraid of. Mother's episode was over now, I could come out of my room. It wasn't like I was on time-out. 

I shook my head at my paranoia and walked out into the hallway, head held high. I didn't stop to listen for the sound of the TV, or any other indication of my mother's whereabouts. I was going to take this time to pamper myself. Taking a nice, relaxing hot shower. I padded off to the bathroom that was between my room and my mother's, closing and moving to lock the door. My hand slipped on the knob, that's when I remembered that this door couldn't be locked anymore.

After my last attempt, mother had hired a locksmith to come and install knew knobs on the bathroom door. This room was the scene of the crime after all, and I couldn't attempt to kill myself if the bathroom door didn't lock. Right? That was mother's logic anyway. It was sweet of her to think that the bathroom was the only place I had attempted to off myself. 

The things she didn't know. 

I stripped my dirty jeans and tee shirt, tossing them in the hamper and turned on the shower, setting the temperature to BOIL. 

I took a moment to look at the scars that I had made on myself. Most of them were on my thighs, since that was the first place I had started cutting. Most of the ones in that area weren't deep, just cat scratches, done with safety pins or other tools that couldn't inflict much damage. I hadn't want to cut too deep and bleed out. At least...not then.

My chest and arms had it much worse. My wrists had twin gashes that were sewn shut and still healing. Then ran half-way up my arm, and started at the very beginning of my wrists. They were definitely note-worthy, but my pride and joys were on my chest. 

Angry, raised scars criss-crossed over my chest, making me look like some sort of demented Tic-Tac-Toe game. These ones had been down with a steak knife I had grabbed one day. Mother had to through that knife out; it was crusted red with my blood.

I touched the scars on my chest and felt a stab of desire shoot through me. I wanted more. I wanted more so badly. I hadn't cut since I had left the hospital; at the time of my discharge I was committed to a recovery. That was then, I wasn't sure how I felt now. 

I looked my body up and down, looking hard at my scars. The old veterans on my thighs, the rookies on my chest and arms. I loved them. I loved them all like they were my babies. I had made them, they were artwork to me. I wanted more art. I wanted to cover my entire body in scars. 

The only thing I wanted more than scars was the feeling I got when I cut. When I was cutting, I felt like I was invincible. Nothing hurt, and nothing ever could hurt again. The memories I was trying to escape were long gone; my father's tortured screams were finally silenced. Everything was okay again. 

I was okay again. 

I wanted the high, the good feeling that I knew I would get if I opened my skin, and let the demons out of their cages. I could feel my very being ache for it.  I knew I was addicted, I had been for years. That had never bothered me really. The way I saw it, everyone had their vices. Some were just more socially acceptable. Mine had gotten me locked in the nut-house more than once. And something told me that my most recent stay wouldn't be my last.

I tore my eyes from the mirror and stepped into the steaming spray. The hot water tore my skin apart, exposing gears and levers in my body. The little gnomes that ran everything had already found shelter, so I couldn't see any of them. How disappointing. 

I let the water run over me, closing my eyes and relaxing as the steam collected. I had always found water soothing. Be it in the form of a shower, bath, or a swimming pool. I just loved water. There was something so pure, so good about it. I had the feeling it could mend all of my wounds if I stood in that stall long enough.

Suddenly, a new thought came crahsing into my head: Why did I have to depend on something else, or someone else to heal me. Why couldn't I do that on my own?