hey guys, long time no see. i'm really sorry, but i'm going on a hiatus. some very bad things have happened recently, and i'm not really ready to deal with everything right now. all of the art requests will be put on hold, all the icon and animation requests and stuff. meanwhile, enjoy the short story i wrote, i guess. apologies, ninjaeggy I never was going through much trauma or emotional pain. I wasn't a masochist, either. I was just lonely. I had heard of one of my classmates, one who had been robbed one night, talk about cutting and all the stress relief it brought. I was just curious, and so I decided to try it. At the time, my school had been giving me pile upon pile of homework that I barely managed to finish just before the deadline. It was fair to say I was slightly stressed out. I still remember when I first grabbed the sharpest knife my family had, and running up to the bathroom upstairs. I remembered when I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked slightly mad. My hair was messy and jagged, my skin was pale, and there were slight circles under my eyes from many sleepless nights. My cheeks were hollow, as I was too busy most of the time to eat. I have nothing to lose, I reminded myself, as I picked a spot on my left arm to cut. I really didn't. I had no purpose in life, besides complete mountains of homework that I didn't even have interest in. My parents were always at work, and I had no sibling to talk to, no friends to chat with. I had to try a few times to cut through my skin. After a few tries, I found out that pressing down hard and drawing the knife across doesn't cut through skin. Neither does slanting the knife diagonally into my arm, because I had no leverage to cut in that angle. Instead, I had to quickly slash the knife across my arm. The more pressure I apply to the knife while doing this makes a nice, deep cut. Even now, whenever I cut myself, I still stare at the blood welling up in fascination. The first time I did it, it was no different. I could have watched the beads of blood welling up dripping down my arm forever. It was just so interesting to watch. It was a few minutes later, when the blood stopped, that I realized I made a mess of the bathroom floor. I wore long sleeves for days after, just in case people noticed and asked questions. The reason that I still cut myself was not of curiousity anymore. That was the reason for the first time, not the second, not the third, not throughout the entire year. Nobody ever noticed the scars. The reason why I still do it now, I suppose, is because it's one of the only things I still have control over of in my life. The homework has been getting worse and worse, so I cut deeper and deeper. I grew less and concerned about hiding my scars, and I had taken to wearing short sleeves again. It wasn't until two years after I'd started cutting that somebody noticed. Her name was Melody, and she was the first friend I'd ever made. She began sitting with me at lunch, discussing homework and gossiping with me. Soon after we met, I started smiling. It felt weird, as the only times I smiled was when I cut myself. She didn't pry about me cutting myself, although it was obvious that we both knew I cut. Melody began coming over to my house, and we would do homework together, laughing and chatting and helping each other where we needed help. I could tell Melody was worried about me cutting, so I made an effort to stop. The first few weeks, I still catch my fingers creeping towards the knife. It got easier after that. I was feeling better than I'd had in years. Then one day, when I was alone, I held up the knife I'd always cut myself with. It had been a year since I'd last cut myself, and my scars had all faded to almost nothing. The knife dangled in front of my eyes, and I paused. I realized, even with the knife in my hands, I had no desire to cut myself. There was an empty chasm in me, that I tried to fill with cutting. But Melody came, and helped me out of the chasm with her companionship. She's the greatest friend I'd ever had.
