James Mandarin

28 Days

 It's been twenty-eight days: six hundred and seventy two hours, forty thousand three hundred and twenty minutes.

The cuts on my arms remain fresh. Blood drips from the lines on my thighs. I've begun cutting them too. No one will notice the scars on my thighs.

I place a wet towel on my wounds. They sting fiercely. I jerk my knees for a moment and then, hold my breath. A low humming sound fills my eyes. My heart pounds within my chest. Blood stains the towel.

I try not to think about it: cutting. I try not to blame myself for succumbing into its grip once again. I tell myself it was only a matter of time before I came crawling back for my razor.

The walls hugged me and told me how much they loved me. Razor placed dark kisses on my skin. The tiles turned my feet to ice. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the pain came flooding back. On second thought, I don't think it was pain. It was shame; yes, shame.

I couldn't even last two damn weeks without cutting. It's pathetic, really. At least, that's what dad, the stereotypical buff Aussie bloke, would say. Dad's home, resting on the sofa, watching the footy game with dead eyes and numb fingers. He is still draped in bandages. He has another two weeks with them until they are removed.

Mum wishes she did more damage. She wishes she didn't stop hitting him with the bottle. "Bloody hell James, why did you have to be there?" She spat as she threw the dishes in the sink. "Everything would have been perfect with him gone. We would have been able to escape this stupid house, this stupid town." She threw a butcher's knife at the wall. "We could have been free. But you had to destroy everything, didn't you?" I didn't say anything. What was there to say? Hey, wanna order a pizza? I'm starving! Or Why don't we just drown ourselves in the ocean and leave our demons on the shore? But I said nothing. What was there to say?

I wanted to open my mouth. I wanted to say something: to speak out. The words twirled and rolled in my brain, waiting to be spoken.

If you kill dad, what will you do with me? Will you kill me too before I have the chance to kill myself? After all, it is no secret you hate him. For the past ten years, you've put in all your effort into making his life a living hell. What will you do once he's gone? Will you do the same to me?

I look at my reflection in the mirror. I need a shower. I look like one of those lanky druggies at school with the gaunt frame, dead eyes, skinny arms and skinny legs.

Chloe once had an addiction to grapes. She'd eat around ten kilos worth in a week. She tried to stop. It was a long journey, but she eventually got there. She called it one of the greatest feats in her life. She was and has been, extremely proud of her accomplishments.

But then I suppose being addicted to grapes is much more different from being addicted to self-harm.

I wipe my brow and look once more at my revolting reflection in the mirror. The white towel is no more. It's crimson red just like the tears that flow down my cheeks.

What's my name? James Mandarin.

Do I have a problem? Yes, yes I do.

What is my problem? I am weak, pathetic, a loser, and a mistake.

What are you, James? I am weak.

What are you, James? I have a problem.

What is your problem? I am a cutter.

God, you're so pathetic. Kill yourself already.