MEnAce (peterick)

1 - Patrick

TW; self harm

~~~

I've taken refuge in a toilet cubicle. The blade digs deep into my flesh. Tears are falling from my cheeks, drip, drip, to the tiled floor below. Then the blood. They mix together, dissolving like milk in a mug of tea. Deep purple droplets swirl about as they dribble lazily down the drain, glinting brightly.

I am seventeen years old, and I believe I am a cliché freak. No, in fact, I don't believe; I just am. Fat, ugly, and worthless. That's what the other kids think of me. But the other kids are cowards, and I take pride in that they aren't brave enough to say it to my face.

Tyler and Josh aren't 'the other kids,' though. Only they know about my eyes. The two bullies had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, when I had needed to swap out my colour contact lenses. In essence, they had seen the truth. The freak with the menace eyes.

I haven't been confronted today. Not yet. I'm upset of course, from the many years of feeling so alone, but I only cut myself for the pleasure of it. The excruciating pain, the blood that bursts through my veins, the curious performance never ceases to fascinate me.

I wonder, sometimes, if I would feel the same satisfaction if it were someone else's blood, someone else's agony. I know plenty of people who are far more deserving than I am to endure this kind of torture.

I know that I'm a freak and an outcast.

But, I am unique; it's always there, behind my eyes, that energy pulsating with control, an offering of power in which I am free to take. It's at this moment I reach my high, my head tipped back in satisfaction.

I dab my eyes with a swab of toilet paper and exit the stall. I go to stand above the sinks. I rinse my forearms under hot water and pull down my sleeves, and then I clean my blade before tucking it away.

I survey myself in the mirror. My contact lenses are green. A pretty but dull green that doesn't exactly draw attention from a distance. When they catch the light, the colour turns grey-blue. But I don't really care for what colour they are. All they do is conceal my true colour, and they do a fine job doing just that.

I'm almost ready to face the rest of my day.

My condition is all about mood swings; highs and lows. My lows are deeper than any ocean, cold and lonely. My highs are higher than any bird could even dream of flying. I'm cold and lonely up there, too, but I'm also free. Life basically sucks from the moment I wake from sleep, which is why I spend most lunchtimes hiding in the bathroom, slicing my skin open. It generally works to lift my mood.

I'm almost ready to face the rest of my day.

"Dude, God is gonna have to kill the kid twice."

I tense up, dark clouds threatening to imprison me before the sun has its chance to rule the skies.

"I'm surprised he's not already dead. He's had more than enough chances."

"Speak of the devil," Tyler sniggers, nudging his friend playfully and grinning into the mirror. "Looks like the menace has been crying."

Josh laughs hysterically. "He must think he's so special," he mocks. "So fucking cool with those... man, I can't think of anything to describe it... the only thing that comes to mind is that awful looking purple vegetable."

"An aubergine," Tyler informs, snickering. He starts to walk, slowly, toward the mirror. "All you gotta do is take out those lenses. Show everyone who you really are. They might even love you. But you've always been a coward, haven't you?"

Josh follows suit, stops walking right behind me, his breath tickling my neck. "Ooh, looky what I've found."

And suddenly, Tyler has my razor blade in his hand, twirling it about his fingers. I say nothing. Don't move. Tyler grins while Josh eyes the blade curiously. These two idiots are probably communicating in some form of telepathic manor

At Tyler's nod, Josh shoves me, hard, and I hunch over the sink with a breathless oof. Josh grabs my shoulders and spins me around to face Tyler, hooking up my arms and pinning them to my back as the other boy approaches. I struggle uselessly, craning my head back, away from the tip of the blade.

"Aww, Patty's scared of his own little razor," Tyler chuckles, drawing the edge of the blade teasingly down the side of my cheek. He's right, though. This is a blade I use to hurt myself. Why should I be scared?

Here, the rules of fear have been reversed: I am no longer the one wielding the weapon.

Though I'm not out of luck. There are two brand-new, sharpened pencils, just sitting there in Tyler's back pocket. The mere thought of casting those sticks of lead sends a ripple of energy down my spine.

I try my best not to smile.

I kick Tyler's shin and the boy grunts, the razor blade falling from his grasp. I then throw my head back and hear the crack of my skull against another. Josh loosens his grip. I dive forward, seizing the pencils from Tyler's pocket.

I stand up straight, turn, and Tyler is standing nose to nose with me, anger flaring in his eyes. I lift one of the pencils and stab it right into his left eye. Tyler screams and falls and thrashes manically, hands clutching his face.

Josh looks terrified. The corners of my lips curl up. The red-haired boy blocks, gripping my wielding wrist in his hand. But my monster urges me, makes me stronger. The tip of the pencil pierces the side of Josh's neck, and plunges deep into his throat. Hands go to his heaving chest as he plummets.

Their deaths are agonizing and bloody.