They told me I needed to stop. When I asked them what it was that I needed to stop doing, they replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the universe.
I needed to stop cutting.
But what they didn't understand was that I couldn't do that. It was like asking me to stop breathing. Like asking me to stop being a boy. I simply couldn't.
The world was a horrible place. It broke people down, made them believe that they were less than nothing, like they deserved to be dead. Hell, it made me feel that way.
But the moment that sharp edge hit my skin, all if that was gone. It was as if, if I cut my skin, it was a way of letting out the thoughts that lurked in my brain. It was as if my skin was a barrier that kept them from getting through. It was cutting that was healing me, not hurting me!
They asked me how it felt, and I couldn't describe it. But I tried. I described it as though there was a searing, white hot hunger inside of me. It felt like I hadn't eaten in weeks, and when I cut, food was immediately put into my stomach. Cutting, it made me feel good. Better.
I didn't want to stop.
They couldn't make me stop. They could keep me here, in this place, under constant surveillance, that was fine. They could deprive me of the outside world, isolate me, if they wanted. Heck, they could drug me and it would all be completely fine, just as long as I could keep cutting. I had to keep cutting.
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Rain
Short Storyrain (noun) /rān/ Moisture condensed from the atmosphere that falls visibly in separate drops. It seems to rain all the time in their world. The anorexic, the killer, and the suicidal. Their world is surrounded in rain. But her's isn't. No, her...
