To the reader- This chapter contains violence and abuse. If you are sensitive to either topic, read with caution.
Chapter 5-Comfort of the Blade
-On both accounts
Sudden realizations often bring about sudden urges. For some, it's the urge to scream until your throat is stripped raw, others need to run. And still others seek the safety of the blade.
What do you think about cutters?
Is it “How do they do that to themselves?”
If so we share the same thoughts, the only difference is that I am one of them.
Technically.
Technically because I do put the blade to my arm, technically because I really do want to push it to its limits.
Not really, because I never do. And that's the worse thing ever. Wanting something so bad because of its comfort, and not getting it. It's like failing suicide. It sucks.
Some people cut for relief, some because it takes their mind off of whatever pain they're thinking of and shows them another one. One that they can control. Which is another reason, control, over something in their lives. Some people do it because they like blood, while others hate blood, but do it because they can't stop. There are a myriad of other reasons people do it, I fit into one category, the lesser known reason.
I do it to prove that I can.
***
Jamie sat in the middle of her dark room, one arm was laid out on her leg, the other held a razor.
It was her favorite, because it was her first, she worked hard to attain it, and she was not planning on replacing it for a long time.
It used to be a razor(not just blade), you know, the kind that people use to shave their legs-or whatever else...lets leave it at that. That was the first time she felt the need to shove something into her skin.
She started with a paper clip, but it was too dull to do anything but leave angry red marks that didn't hurt at all (though they were fun to look at for a first time mutilator). From the paper clip she moved to a safety pin, the only other thing she could find. Another thing that didn't work, her hand flinched back the second the sharp point touched skin. So she went back to the paper clip's red marks for a while.
Richard and wife number three divorced, Jamie was blamed with a pin needle-filled slap or two. She left before Richard could get more serious about her punishment. In the bathroom that night she saw her savior. She took the cheap plastic razor off of he shelf, holding it with loving care as she stroked the blade with her thumb. It sliced through easily. That soft touch, however, was not enough to bleed.
With a pair of bathroom pliers(don't ask) she extracted the blade. It sat, a small shiny beacon of possibility. She folded her fingers over it, trapping it in her hand as she left the bathroom.
Her father was in the hall, waiting for her.
“What took you so long, you little bitch?” He demanded.
The words stung true to their purpose, Jamie said nothing as she walked past him without a word. She squeezed the blade in her hand, it bit back eagerly.
With new purpose to her step she quickened her steps toward her room. At that time it was still white and blank. Just like she was. Still searching for what made something unique.
She sat on the dark red carpet, right in the middle of the room-just as she was now-opening her hand, revealing her treasure to the light. Her other hand reached to stroke the cold thin steel, take it in her grasp, press it to her arm, apply pressure, willing herself to pull it down and allow it to slice through.
There was a crash in the bathroom, hurried steps towards her room.
The door opened, her mom came in. Startled, Jamie pulled the blade back and in the process it cut deep as it was meant to. Blood filled it, spilling out evenly. Jamie winced as she hid the blade in her hand, resisting the urge to wipe the blood away. Soothe her scared nerves.
Her mother rushed to her, “Jamie, baby,” she said, wrapping her arms around her daughter, “give me the blade honey.”
Jamie shook her head, “Wha-what blade?” She stuttered.
“You know what I mean, quickly. Your father saw what you did to his razor. He's royally pissed. Please Darling, give me the blade.”
Jamie could only shake her head.
“I promise you'll get it back if you just give it to me now,” her mother said, taking the hand that held the blade.
“Jamie, please.”
Her mother was scared, fear crouched deep in her eyes, her arms shook. Jamie's comfort, her rock was scared. Tears fell out of her mother's fearful eyes, she mouthed please again. Now Jamie was scared. Rocks aren't supposed to cry.
She opened her hand and let the blade fall out, her mother took it blood and all and stashed it in her pocket.
“Thank you Honey,” she said before leaving the room and hurrying down the stairs.
“Dammit!” there was another crash down the hall, the bathroom door opened.
Jamie was still sitting in the middle of her room, her blood trailed arm still face up on her leg. She was unable to move, afraid of what was going on. Mostly because she had no idea what it was.
“That was my last razor,” heavy, angry footsteps got closer and closer to Jamie, she couldn't move. She couldn't think. All she could do was wait.
The door was forced open without so much as the turn of a doorknob. It slammed into the wall, where the doorknob was forced into the wall. Cracks coved most of the door.
Damn, he was angry.
“What did you do with it, you worthless piece of shit? Huh? Does it feel good? Give me the fucking razor and I'll show you exactly what to do with it!”
Jamie still couldn't move. She could barely hear as his muffled voice pushed it's way through her fuzzy mind. The world moved slowly, each moment etching itself into her mind before moving onto the next one.
“Well, where is it? Fucking whore, I know you have it!” He struck out too fast for Jamie's mind to process. Her neck whipped back, she fell to the side where fight or flight finally came into play.
She fled.
Crawling helplessly across the floor against his kicks, falling over and over again. Until her body gave up and took his abuse.
Her eyes were held tightly shut, her mother's voice cut through the blows.
“Richard! Stop!” she was saying.
“This bitch stole the blade from my razor. Probably to use against herself,
if she wants pain, I'll show her pain.” Another kick, another bruise.
“I took the razor,” she said, the kicks stopped. “I needed it to open a window we painted shut.”
“You took it?”
Jamie opened one eye. Her father was blocking the view of her mother, his back was toward her.
“Yes.”
His arm pulled back, his body moving enough to reveal Jamie's mom. Time was slow again, the fear on her face was apparent as Richard's hand hit her with enough force to knock her over.
He turned back to Jamie, she shut her eye again. There was one last bout of abuse before he left.
Jamie could feel the bruises over her body, blood still seeped from her arm. She rolled onto her aching stomach and threw up. Tears streamed down her face, her mother was still lying unmoving by the door.
Jamie crawled to her.
“Mom,” she said through choking tears.
She picked her mothers head up off the ground and laid it on her lap, she sat like this for an hour before her mother woke up.
“Jamie,” she said weakly, moving her hand to her pocket. She pulled the metal out of it, shining without a hint of blood. She handed it to Jamie, who took it and put it in her own pocket.
“I'm...I'm sorry.” Jamie said.
“Don't be,” her mother said, taking her hand in her own.
“It's all my fault...I should have known better,” the tears came back.
“Yes, you should have. Why did you want it honey?” On her own power her mother sat up, facing her daughter.
“I...don't...”
“Do you need to talk to somebody?”
“No,” Jamie shook her head vigorously.
“I just want you to know that there's more to life than a piece of sharpened metal. You know that don't you?”
There was no answer.
“I love you Honey.”
“I love you too.”
The memory was almost enough to bring tears back to Jamie's eyes, as she sat, nearly a year later in the exact same spot, with the exact same blade and the exact same desire.
Just like then she put the blade against her arm, and pressed down, willing herself to pull and break through the skin. There was a scar next to where she held the blade against her forearm. She pulled the blade a little bit, releasing the pressure unconsciously. There was no blood yet. She sat for a minute before the first bit of blood appeared. Satisfied with this small victory she moved on to the next half-cut.
***
Maybe the reason that cold metal refuses to cut in is because of that time. The one time it bit through, the most vivid picture in my mind and the scariest. It might be that I'm afraid it was just a dream waiting for its moment of deja-vu. If it is, maybe I'll never conquer myself, if it isn't then maybe it's just a matter of time. Or a matter of self.
Self-preservation afraid of him finding out. Afraid of each hit, each hate-filled word. Because at every encounter with them, after every hit, every kick, after every insult I die a little inside.
Maybe I'll get lucky, he'll come to me looking for anger relief, say one word.
And maybe I'll drop dead right there.
