My eyes shot open, sweat drenching my shirt and my hair sticking to my forehead and cheeks. But I knew. . .I knew that not all the water on my face was sweat. My eyes still stung from the tears that I had shed while my mind plagued me with nightmares
I had never been one for shareing my feelings. And to be honest I don't think I ever will. But if there was one thing I will never share even if it would save my life; the scars on my hands aren't from accidents like I say they are. And tonight I was going to try something new. . .
My sharp friend was hidden under my bed between the carpet and the skirting board, right where I could put my hand on it when I needed. My guilty pleasure. Of cause it was the one I had been using right from the start but that didn't matter; fuck all if anyone cared if I was gone. There was a glint on the blade as I brought it up from my lava lamp. I sat on the floor with my bed against my back. I heard somewhere that if you are going for the wrist, cut down not across. I held the small sharpener blade in between my fingers and pressed the corner up against my exposed wrist. The first pinprick is always the first. The first line of blood balled on my skin and then ran slowly down my forearm. The blade followed right down next to the big blue vein cutting across a vein going off from the main
I never did feel the pain anymore. I just felt the sweet extacy behind each stroke. The next cut was further down my forearm, deeper than I had ever even dreamed. I leant my head back, a smile deep on my face and pleasure running hot through my whole body. My heart beat fast as the pleasure got deeper. But the moment I came down from the high, I knew I had to move the blade to somewhere better. I clenched my fist in an attempt to make the blood flow full and fast
I never did try to hide my wounds, never my scars; but between when I had clear skin to deep cuts, I liked my time. I liked keeping this part to myself
I made two more cuts on my left wrist awkwardly and still get that pleasure I was after. And I made a point of cutting really deep in the crook of my elbow. The big vein there pumped blood out like there was no tomorrow and I had a few black spots fuzz my vision. I didn't care. This was how I liked it, this was the better part of it
The blade was drawn straight across my arm as if there was nothing to it. Lots of little cuts now scattered across my pale skin, with the big ones drawing the most blood that covered my arms. It was quiet amazing how much I could handle. But there was no pain involved anymore. I just did it and came to extacy and I suppose it was never over
My hand shook as I sat there, a smile still across my face. I watched as the blood dripped from it, rolled down my finger and thumb. I watched as another glint came off the blade and as it came to rest against my wrist. The last thing I remember that night was that draw straight across
I actually laughed that last time
As crazycraz stated, this piece could use a quick run through a spell checker.
Raise the stakes with this piece, I understand the protagonist is running after a high: however, why is that? Is this the only way they can feel alive? No, it has to be something deeper. This isn't a cheap thrill, if we go by the ending.
Something tells me it has to do with the nightmares from earlier. They cried, waking up with a cold sweat.
The protagonist is being plagued -haunted. By what though, I wonder? While I understand by their nature, they won't share their emotions with their peers: however, the reader is a fly on the wall. I'm sure behind closed doors with no one watching, they indulge in their emotions.
Now. What could be driving the character to such a high-risk activity in the first place? The answer to this is crucial to developing a truly impacting story. Right now, you have a story that is graphic -which hits the audience, but it doesn't drive home the need.
It feels empty . . . or better-phrased -incomplete. I can't understand the character's motivation, what could be so horrible that they want to only revel in pleasure at any price? This isn't something our protagonist decided to do in the moment of a high.
They clearly state in the very beginning:
He or she knew this was how it would end. They were working up to it, that's all. It was almost as though . . . if they didn't take the small steps, they knew they wouldn't have the courage to go through with it. They were compelled to rationalize that it was to get the highest thrill possible, but that wasn't it.
The protagonist wanted it to end. As the reader, I don't understand why. Death is unknown -what happens next? No one knows. At least alive, they could keep chasing after the high, but that wasn't fulfilling their need anymore. That wasn't enough to hold them in this realm.
Besides that, I urge you to slow down. Savor each cut, allow the reader to feel the thrill that ripples –the waves, the hitched breath of anticipation, and the dull pain that taints the pleasure, but is soon lost gradually. Is our protagonist in a hurry? Do they take their time, lie back to enjoy the high that comes? Do they tie a band around their arm to make the veins pop out?
Good luck!
This is really depressing. The writing itself is good, though there are a few spelling errors. The ending really confused me; it sounds like he killed himself at the end from bleeding to death. I have no clue what happened in the beginning either... I get it is a nightmare, but from what? It might just be a try at putting in some mystery, but to me it was just confusing. Don't take that as a bad thing; your a very good writer.