James Mandarin

Cut Boy

I hate this place.

People clamour around me in the hallway. It's boiling hot and the stench of body odour and bad breath makes me want to vomit. I push my way across the hallway with the crowd, trying to get to my locker.

I don't want to be here. I want to be back home, in my bathroom, with my empty cupboard and silent walls. Not around these people.

I quickly detach myself from the crowed when I spot my locker. I fumble with the lock, trying to remember the locker combination. My shoulders groan, under the strain of my school bag. I'm in desperate need of water and air.

It's so loud. Why can't people shut up? Why do they always have to talk?

The locker finally opens and I place my bag inside. My arms burn as I pick up my literature books.

I haven't cut in two weeks, two days, three hours and thirty-five minutes, and I'm at breaking point.

The hallway becomes louder and louder. Why can't they shut up? Why can't everyone shut up?

I slam my locker shut and watch as the locker shudders. My left arm twitches. I bite my lip. I need something... anything.

The twitch hurts. It burns. It's like a nagging mosquito bite.

I need razor. I need to breathe again.

I'm drowning in the pool of my own blood and emotions. I hate this town. I hate this school. I hate everything.

Is a razor too much to ask for?

The first bell rings and I yelp. More noise.

Students groan and soon begin making their way to their homeroom. I enter mine as slowly as I can, with my head bent. I don't want to look into their eyes. I don't want their pity. I just want Razor.

I sit in the corner by myself as the students whisper to one another. I wish I were invisible once again. I clutch my books with both hands, trying not to think of the unbearable ache in my arm.

I need to cut. I need to cut.

Cut.

Cut.

Cut.

Cut.

Cut.

I want Razor.

Yes, I want Razor.

Someone touches my arm and I instantly look up. It's Chloe. She's smiling. "Hey James." She says before tilting her head to the left.

I offer a small smile. "Hey."

She takes a sit beside me and doesn't say a word. It's nice, I suppose. There really isn't anything to say. My parents barred me away from the rest of the human world after the incident in the bathroom. Even Chloe was not allowed to call or visit.

Her blonde hair is up in a messy ponytail and there is toothpaste on her shirt. She probably woke up five minutes before school began. She only spills toothpaste on her clothing when she's running late for something.

One of the kids, Mark, hands me a white sheet of paper. I hesitantly take it and look at it. Chloe stifles a groan. "Guess you just got your exam time table."

I take a quick glance at it. The words blur before my eyes and merge into a state of chaos in the page. I blink twice and look away. "Yeah, I suppose so."

"Do you want to hang out this weekend?" Chloe asks nervously, as she plays with her thumb. Since when did she start doing that?

"Yeah. That would be nice."

She grins. "Sweet. Meet me at the park."

"Okay."

The bell rings and we all begin filing out of our homeroom to our first period classes. As I begin heading towards literature, I realise that I have maths. With a sigh and roll of my eyes, I begin heading back to my locker. In a bid to look interested in coming back to school, I take out my exam timetable. Exams start in nine days.

Nine days.

But there's something else that catches my eye. There are two words scrawled hastily at the bottom of the paper: CUT BOY.

I freeze in my spot as a wave of nausea rolls over me. The back of my eyes burns with unseen tears.

CUT BOY.

CUT BOY.

I repeat the words to myself over and over again.

CUT BOY.

CUT BOY.

I need something to take the pain away. I need something to ease my ache. I place my things back in my locker and notice the scissors in the corner.

My mind springs to life and the twitch in my arm gets worse. My nostrils flair as I take a sharp intake of breath. I quickly place my literature books in the locker and take my maths ones. I also place the scissors in my pocket.

I don't make my way to maths class.

I lock myself in a cubicle in the boys' toilets and throw my books on the floor. I remove the scissors from my pocket and sit on the toilet seat.

My heart races as the cold metal touches my skin. This will have to do. Within the space of thirty seconds, I'm once again in paradise as my blood spills on the sanitised white tiles and the words Cut Boy, repeats itself over and over again in my head.