*trigger warning*
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That night at the foster home, after supper chores, I walk up the old rickety stairs to my room. Yes, this foster home is the perfect image of a stereotypical TV orphanage, and I hate it. In the first of the rooms that I share with the other girls, I walk over to my drawer. The inside contains my secret, hidden, so that no one will ever find it.
After I open the drawer, I dig to the bottom and underneath my favorite pair of jeans, where the small, silver piece of metal is taped to the wooden drawer. I peel off the tape and lift the blade up slowly admiring it as a ray of light reflects onto the ceiling. I slip the blade into my sweater pocket, close my drawer, and walk to the bathroom.
In the tiny, old bathroom, I sit on the floor. The door is locked tight and people know better than to interrupt me during any point in my everyday life; I'll be fine.
I roll up the sleeve of my oversized sweatshirt and admire the clean lines, perfectly straight, fading from almost healed scars to bright red marks, ranging based on when the slits were made. I lift my blade slowly to my forearm. I'm almost up to my elbow; soon I'll have to switch arms.
Slowly and carefully, I dig the blade into my skin and slide it across my arm. The blood springs out of the cut bringing instant gratification. This is why I do it: the pain just fades away, matching the inside to the outside.
I return the blade to my arm making another identical mark next to the other cut. I continue on like this until I make about 5 or 6 wonderfully satisfying cuts. Only then do I stop. I stand up and run the blade under the sink to wash off the blood before wiping it dry with a piece of toilet paper. Then, I press a sheet of toilet paper to the cuts watching the strips of blood soak through. As I hold the sheet to my arm, slowly the cuts stop bleeding and I place a Band-Aid over my arm from the stash under the sink. Placing my blade back in my pocket, I walk back to the room.
I lay down in the bed that's called mine and sleep away the rest of the pain. Of course, I know it will never fully disappear.
YOU ARE READING
Left Out (Demi Lovato)
FanfictionA 13 year old orphan makes a new friend who introduces her to the music of popstar, Demi Lovato. But, what her friend doesn't know, is that this girl has some of the same problems that Demi did. (Cover made by: @IAmALovatic4Life)
