Wounds

this is more of an introduction than a first chapter i wasn’t too fond of how i opened the story up, so i added this. warning! this is pretty short and isn’t that greatly written. i just wanted to finally post something on here. i will be working on editing the first chapter and posting it sooner or later. of course i am open to reviews, but please go easy on me, this is the first time i have posted something on her and im not sure how much anyone is going to like this, or if anyone is going to read it. but all in all, this is WOUNDS

WOUNDS
introduction

I laid helplessly on the ground. He was screaming at the top of his lungs.

"If I ever hear about..." I couldn't pay attention to anything else. I heard everything he said. I understood all that he has trying to get through to me. "I will fucking kill you if..." My hearing went in and out as i tred to stay concious and get back on my feet. It was hard when he had his foot holding my head down on the ground ready to stomp it on the stone tile. "...you fucking faggot !"He hated me with a passion.

I even hated myself with a passion. Nothing I did was ever good enough. It wasn’t my fault I turned out the way I am. I can’t control anything. All I can do is deal with it. I haven’t “dealt” with anything in a long time. But after tonight, all I can do is deal. I have no motivation to get better. I have no want to continue living like this. Smiling in eye view, but in the background killing myself.

I took the abuse and the bullshit he fed to me. I took all the words that were the worst cuts of all. I took the stabs. I took the imense pressure of having my head pressed against a steel toed boot and the cold stone tile. I screamed out in anger as he stood there, pinning me. I wiggled my way out of his grip, shoved him away from me, told him to fuck off, and then I left. Not looking back, not saying a word, not shedding a tear. I went upstairs, went into my room and locked my doors. I collapsed onto my bed and started to cry. But what was crying going to do? It wouldn’t change my mood, it wouldn’t stop anything, and it just made me look like a pussy. No, for the first time in a long time, I needed to to breath my pain. I needed to release.

The cold metal touching my skin was not unfamiliar to me. It was like seeing a good friend again after years with out a single word. As I moved it around my body thinking of what to do, where to start, I started thinking about him. A different him, not the same one. The one person in my life that loved me. The one person in my life I loved. It almost made me stop, but then I thought of how useless I was. How much I hurt him and how much he loved me. Why would anyone love me? Why did I deserve someone so great in my life? How am I ever going to repay him for what have done? All I knew was there was nothing left to think of. I took the cold, sharp, releasing metal, raised it in the air, and thrusted it down into my leg. Just enough to make me feel, just enough to bring a tear. I lifted it looked at the blood that reminded me I was alive. And hate filled my eyes once more. I took it again, raised it in the air, but instead of thrusting, I slashed down on my opposite arm.

I slashed my arm till I couldn’t see my skin. The sound of the blade ripping apart my skin, pouring out what pathetic life I had in me, broke all silence in the room. It was music to my ears. I cried out silently for I already started to ache. I needed to move on to another area, but I couldn’t stop. I kept digging into my arm. I quickly switched over to my chest, at first rubbing the nipple with my blood, then I viciously hacked at my breast. Blood ran from my chest down my stomach, down to my legs and then the floor. But I didn’t stop. All the words he said to me tonight, I carved them into my leg. I slashed out all of them, put “x”s over the worst. I put I hated myself. I cut wrist just enough to bleed, not as to kill myself, but just for the danger of possibly dying. I didn’t care if I died, all I knew was it would make everyone life so much easier.

Then there was a sensation beneath my stomach. It was the burning pain of the cuts. It wasn’t the running of the blood. It was the sensational feeling if pleasure. I felt better, I had finally liked something I did. It disgusted me. I started hacking away at the head of my own penis. I hated how I loved the feeling, how I could kill myself, and I would get an erection. I never wanted it to happen again. But deep down inside I knew it would never stop. Disappointed in myself, I eventually passed out on my bed. Now I would have to face the consequences of reopening my wounds.