CryBaby (COMPLETED)(South Park)

Chapter 11| Clyde

I shouldn't have to do this, as the warning in the beginning is there for a reason, but I feel as if I have too.

TRIGGER WARNING

When I finally get home, they'd kept me in the hospital for the entirety of the school day, claiming they needed permission off of my parents to leave, I'm greeted by a bright yellow post-it-note on the fridge. I drop my school back and remove my coat, letting both fall to the floor in an abandoned heap.

I pluck it off the fridge, and read it.

I've gone on a small trip, I need to clear my mind of thoughts of your mother. I'll see you in a week, you have my number.
- Dad

I roll my eyes at his selfishness, leaving me alone with my cursed thoughts and not even thinking to invite me to go with him. Yet it explains why I was late, as he didn't wake me up as he'd gone.

I drop the note to the floor, and lean against the kitchen counter, my mind still rushing with my thoughts from the hospital. One phrase always comes to the surface, and I grit my teeth.

Hurt myself, so no one else can cause me anymore pain.

This stupid phrase! It's as if it's taunting me, testing me. Chanting 'do it' over and over again. I take a shaky breath, pressing my hands over my ears, trying to block out the damn phrase.

Hurt myself, so no one else can cause me anymore pain.

It just gets louder, every damn time.

I turn around, pressing myself against the counter and slumping against it, staring straight at a collection of knives. They range from big to small, sharp to blunt. The handles are neatly arranged with size, and I lift a shaky hand. I move towards the knives, grazing the wooden holder with my finger tips.

Should I do it?

The question repeats again and again in my mind, and I answer it by slowly wrapping my fingers around the handle of one of the biggest and sharpest knives. I carefully lift it from the holder, the blade revealing itself and gleaming in the light of the sun. When the blade is fully out of the holder, I place the blunt side to my pale, thin wrist.

The blade is cold, unused by any one. I shiver under its touch, and lightly run the knife down my wrist, practicing the motion I would use when I place the sharp side to my wrist. A perfectly deep, straight line would suffice. I would quickly bleed out, and hopefully would die without anyone having to walk in and find me.

I keep shaking, the knife shaking with me as I continually move it down my wrist, then return it back to the top. I don't wish to break the skin, yet. I gulp.

I desperately want to stop the pain. It hurts so much, it makes me feel empty; as if anyone I've ever cared for has ripped a piece of my heart out, and has stamped upon it. Yet, trying to stop my pain, trying to drown out the mental wounds by applying physical ones will hurt too. Horribly. It would hurt even more than the mental ones, and makes me question if it would be worth it.

To suffer more to stop the suffering.

The blunt blade still rests against the top of my wrist, no longer cold. My palms sweat, causing the handle to slip within my grasp. It jerks, and I try to grip it again, and yelp as the sharp side poke into my wrist.

It cuts the skin, and I slam the knife down on the kitchen counter. I clutch my wrist, my nails digging into it in an attempt to sooth the pain. It's such a small gash, yet it causes my whole arm to burn in a harsh pain. A small amount of blood seeps from the cut, and I feel tears run down my cheeks and drop onto the counter.