Broken Angel

The title pretty much sums it up. I'm a broken angel and this is my story.

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6. It's Finally Come To This

Has it really come to this? Have you really come to make me do this to myself? I don't even know anymore.

It was one of those nights where you feel so out of it, but at the same time all these emotions are bottled up inside just waiting to burst. I couldn't sleep. So, I didn't. I just lay there in bed, listening to music…and thinking about you. You were all I seemed to think about. And the pain as well. There was so much pain, but no regrets.

My hand twitched with an urge. An urge to do something that I knew I wouldn't regret later, just like everything else. I gripped the sheets and told myself I didn't need it, I shouldn't try it. But depression told me otherwise and took over.

I got out of bed and rummaged through my drawer where I knew I had put it away for safe keeping. Somewhere no one would find it, well at least think of finding it. I panicked when I couldn't locate the object of my goal, but when I felt the cool metal touch my palm I let out a relieved sigh. Thank God.

I clutched it tightly in my hand and slowly made my way back to my bed. I layed down on my side and examined the object up close now.

It was my pocket knife. The design on the knife was actually The Reaper, as in the Grim Reaper. Dressed in a black cloak to cover his skeletal body, a chain around his neck holding an hourglass and, of course, he held his scythe. His signature weapon.

With shaking hands, I opened the knife and examined the blade. It was black with the edges highlighted in silver. The words: "The Reaper" were typed on the blade, giving it a name. It was a beautiful weapon indeed and had many uses. One of which I'b be using tonight.

I gently hovered the blade over my left wrist and lightly dragged it across the exposed skin. Without hesitation, I pushed harder until a beaded line followed behind the path of the blade. I sucked in a sharp and shaky breath. It stung only slightly, but that's what felt so good about it. There was just numbness and I actually forgot about the pain for once. I smiled to myself in satisfaction and pleasure. God, it felt so good.

Without realizing it myself, I started to make more lines, forcing the blade deeper and with more force. I wanted this. Oh, did I want this. All this pain and suffering was slowly killing me. I couldn't handle it any longer. The drama, the heartache, everything. Every bad thing that happened to me was my fault and I knew what had to be done.

I had to punish myself.

The cuts weren't that deep since I was using a pocket knife that wasn't very sharp. They weren't as deep as I intended them to be, but this was good enough for me. I hadn't realized that I started on my right arm when I held the blade in my left hand which was shaking uncontrollably. I cut two lines then stopped myself. No. Not tonight at least.

I looked at my left arm and counted the scars I had made. 24. Plus the other two on my right arm makes 26. I looked at the blade which was held in my left hand. Tears stung my eyes when I realized what I had just done. I dropped the blade on my bed and sprinted to the bathroom, careful not to wake my parents.

I ripped many pieces of toilet paper and dabbed my cuts, hissing in pain. I flushed the used toilet paper down the toilet and slumped down in the corner of the bathroom. I looked at my left arm, now covered in scars, my mistakes. I squeezed my legs against my body with my right arm and sobbed into my knees. What a mess I am.

I shook myself back to reality and cleaned the tears away. I headed back to my room and switched into a long sleeved shirt and plopped back into bed. I grabbed my knife and closed it and before putting it under my pillow whispered,"Next time."

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