It was 3:00 a.m. and I was awake. I had gone to sleep to escape the pain but apparently it was so deep that I couldn’t even sleep properly. It hurt down to my core but somehow I kept it all inside. Since you left, the last few months have been like this: me going to school and plastering on a fake smile so no one will know. No one will suspect that I have a secret. People don’t want to know about my pain or my problems, I just slather on make-up to cover the bags under my eyes and powder to hide the evidence, the marks that would show it all. I was content to live under the radar; so long as you smile and pretend, no one will notice that there is so much more below the surface. It was hard to pretend, like constantly being on stage. Then again, acting is a legitimate thing to do; this was more like lying, to everyone all the time. I couldn’t do it all the time. I had to come home and set myself free for a little while.

I stood up and walked over to the desk in my room, reaching for the scissors; the action came naturally now. I don’t know how it started, but it was sometime after you left. As I sat down on the floor by the window, I noticed that it was a full moon. In the moonlight I was reminded of us, of the time we stayed out at the beach all night. I opened the scissors as wide as they could go. I remembered that you insisted you could drive home even though it was late and raining; you didn’t know that someone else’s recklessness would be the problem. I pressed the blade against the skin of my left forearm, softly at first. I never grew accustomed to simply sliding it across my skin. As much as it was a release for me, the first cut was always the worst. I pressed harder and harder into my skin, knowing that I was close to drawing blood. Would you have been disappointed to see me so ravaged by scars? I finally saw the few red drops of blood that I had been expecting. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. I quickly felt as if the pain was temporarily subsiding and tears began to fill my eyes. With those few trickles of blood, I felt myself coming undone at the seams and my emotions seeping out of me.

Once I was done, I suddenly felt composed, at least enough to get me through the next hours or so. It was an emotional rollercoaster: it hurt to do it and think about what I was doing to myself, but it also hurt not to. I couldn’t take it anymore; I was drowning in mid-air, bleeding out from an imaginary wound, being attacked by an invisible disease. As much as I didn’t want to do what I did, I couldn’t find another way to save myself. You probably would find this ironic, me hurting myself to save myself. It became like a drug and I couldn’t function without my daily fix. I would find a way to keep it hidden, lest I be cut off from my only form of release.

I don’t do it anymore. I put down the scissors and let myself drown. I let myself bleed. I let myself be continually infected. I stopped pretending, yet I don’t think many people have noticed. Maybe there is no way to save me. Maybe there is no way for me to move on. You were the first one for me to love and I think you will be the last. Why did you have to leave me here alone? I would rather you have taken me with you. I still get those feelings like I am never going to make it out of this cesspool that has become my life. It’s like a black hole that has found a way to swallow me up so that I can never find my way out. I don’t think I will ever be happy again. Why did you have to die?