The Sweetest Death

Nine+

© Amber Kalkes 2014

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*Warning: Self-harm

Nine+

Pain.

Its definition is pretty simple. It can refer to emotional or physical suffering or discomfort caused by illness or injury. I was feeling the latter as the heat of the small diamond shaped flame hit the flesh of my wrist. I didn’t want to cry out though I knew I was alone in the house.

Tyler had left for his mystery assignment two nights before, apparently during the meeting with Viktor, at Edgar’s request. So supposedly he was in the middle of nowhere doing some errand I didn’t know about. What a shitty best friend I am.

Edgar was gone. I had only rose myself from the bath once I knew he was gone and decided to light one of those imported cigarettes before sinking back into the water. It was still fairly warm and I found myself drifting into a state of melancholy as I stared at the zippo on the lip of the bath in debate.

Should I or shouldn’t I?

Obviously I had decided to.

Nearly biting clean through my lower lip I let the zippo fall from my hands to the royal blue tiled floor of the bathroom with a clatter. I shakily put the cigarette to my lips as I inspect my work, shocked that it actually did work. Nothing had before and despite all evidence to the contrary I was still doubtful. Yet, here it was literally in the flesh that I am in fact vulnerable in one physical sense.

The skin itself is charred and black in color like burned marble. The mark is about the size of a dime but present all the same. Euphoria so familiar spreads through my veins slow and sweet like syrup as I lay my head back against the porcelain of the tub. I can’t stop my tears of pain and relief as they fall from my eyes only to paint the milky warm water with red.

Closing my eyes more tears fall as I feel my body relax for the first time in months. I didn’t realize how wound I’ve been until this moment. It was like an addict going cold turkey, distraction only works so much until you relapse and in this moment I am no different than your common junkie. Taking another deep lazy drag of the cigarette I watch the smoke spout above me like a mushroom cloud.

Then the inevitable happens.

The euphoria has worn off and now morphed into a sickening guilt. What had I done? Why am I so fucked up? Why can’t I just be happy that I have someone who loves me and cares enough for me to try to stop any emotional pain? I don’t get why I act the way I do. Or maybe I do.

Major depression the shrinks had called it. It wasn’t just some shitty day or bad attitude about life. It wasn’t teenage angst, rebellion, or attention seeking. It began when I was fourteen, the symptoms. I just started feeling…tired, all the time. Then came the unreasonable feelings of worthlessness and guilt. I convinced myself I was a shitty sister, a shitty daughter and it would be better if I just got away from everyone. No one told me any different so who was I to think any different but even if they had I’m not sure I would have believed them.

I didn’t believe anything but my own sick mind.

I either stayed up all night or slept all the time. I didn’t know why it was it just was and my parents never asked me why. By the time I was fifteen I had lost thirty pounds and was sitting skeletal at a hundred pounds, unhealthy looking at five feet, six inches tall with a naturally more curvy build. Then the thoughts started to kick in, the bad ones.