One. Scars Login to Kupika  or  Create a new account 

This diary entry is written by msChatterbox. ( View all entries )

One. ScarsCategory: Short Story
Saturday, 30 August 2008
01:54:15 AM (GMT)
When I was little, I cut myself. That curiousity has carried over to my teenage years, but it isn't curiousity anymore. It was simply the feeling, the ecstasy. I have scars that the doctor said are permanent, and will never go away. I thought I hid them well. Unfortunately, even with my bracelets, I was uncovered. I am now going to rehab for my alcohol addiction and self-harm habits. This is my journal. Today, I had to face going back to school. Everyone thought I was on vacation. People muttered, "Lucky you", "How'd you get your parents to agree to that?", and more stupid things that make me want to snap them in half. I was surprised nobody noticed the scars. They seem to pulsate all day long, screaming for people to look at them. Nobody did. The main thing I should talk about here is the North End. That's the bad part of our city, which I have never previously been to. As my bag swung annoyingly on my shoulder, a child's voice caught my attention. She was standing atop a stairwell, calling to her mother. "Mama, mama! Look it!" She screeched. I glanced over the rail to see what she was looking at. My heart pounded as I saw a young girl, around my age, laying down on a bench, curled up inside a sleeping bag. I wanted to dash towards the child and muffle her sounds. "Mama, look it!" The girl screamed louder, this time stamping her foot. "What Abigail?" The mother hissed. She looked up, keeping her head down, staring at her daughter. "Look it," she emphasized where she was pointing, "there is someone sleeping on a bench, Mama!" The woman talked into her cell, blatantly ignoring her daughter. I bit my lip. The feeling welled up inside me, except this time the pain wasn't coming towards me. Finally, the little girl screamed, loud as she could, "Mama, look, something is sleeping on the stairs!" "Shut up, Abbie. Go play, now, those people are called homeless." "What are homeless?" "People who are too lazy to get jobs. Now go, I have to get to Brad's house." I watched the silhouette under the sleeping bag shiver. My eyebrows furrowed, and the pain and sting of her remark hit me as well. I bit my lip again, and blinked, staring up at the sky. I hoped to hold back the streams that found their way upon my cheeks so often, but one slipped out. It splashed onto my wrists, highlighting my scars. My chest heaved, and I tried to catch my breath. My lungs stalled, and my throat stung. It burned and pulsated like fire had burned into it. The pain that girl felt had to be far worse than my normal teenage troubles. The next day, I woke up to the news. "A girl was found dead today in the North End. It was an apparent suicide, however, the police have yet to find any identity attached to this young girl." I glance down to my wrists. The scars are gone.
Last edited: 30 August 2008

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