I wrapped my tiny hand firmly around my aching wrist as tears glided gracefully down my cheeks. The cuts began to sting as they were hit with a salty splash of hatred, and my body began to shake. I let go and yanked down my frayed sleave as I climbed into the bed which provided no rest to my racing mind. I always put a bandaid over my broken heart, but never took the time to glue the pieces back together, and now I was paying top dollar for it.
There was no use in going through the motions of a trial for the jury which had been so convienently placed in my mind had already found me guilty of every charge. The closest thing to salvation to me was death, but my weaker side wasn't sure it was ready to let go. The war between my desires and my strength were begining to take over and my want was winning. My phone was buzzing and I was responding to every line of little black letters without even realizing I was being too honest.
My hands wrapped themselves around a bottle of nail polish remover and mixed all I had left into a bottle of watter. I took a sip and dropped the bottle when I opened my phone and read the word "NO". I was so confused; what had I told her? The house phone rang and my dad yelled my name. I sobbing and walked into that cold room and listened to him tell me that Madison's mother had called. I had told Madi everything I was doing without realizing it, and she used the information to save my life; I hated her for it. Five years of keeping my past bottled up were getting to me, and I didn't want to deal with it.
I promised to be a good girl and went back to bed. My eyes stayed open all night and my heart just kept beating. No one knew how much worse everything was going to get, not even me. For the next year I faked smiles and covered up my wrists; during the summer I learned about Scar Away and moved the razor to my thighs, so everything seemed fine. Then I just snapped and everything came out, my school's pastor sat there in his office staring at me as I broke down and refused to believe in anything. His words were meant to help, but they only made my broken heart begin to cut itself with the edges. Everyone knew why, but no one understood.
I was eight years old when I was raped, and no one knew until I turned thirteen. By that time compassion had led itself to the door, and I was left alone to deal with everything. Then Eric grabbed me and pulled me into a tight hug; he knew what was going on and he actually cared. He showed me how much love I gave to the people around me and forced me to give that love back to myself.
The wounds were healed, but the scar is still there; I suppose it will always be there. My razor blades and I have had many battles since then, but now I win. I've forgiven the boy who raped me, but I never want to see his face again, not in my dreams; not in real life.