A Stranger to Myself

"I feel like I don't even know myself. And if I don't know myself, how can anyone else ever know me?" Autumn has always felt alone, like an outcast. But when a girl comes into her life and reveals things about Autumn she never would have known otherwise, can Autumn learn to accept her differences she's so used to hating?


7. Stains ----TRIGGER WARNING----


I reached into my medicine cabinet and took out a razor there. It was cold to the touch. When I looked in it I could see my reflection. Or was it really my reflection?


Who was I? Who was Autumn Griswald? Was that me? Who was I? I felt like I had no personality. Not one of my own. It twisted and morphed depending on who was with me. There were no true qualities inside of me. All of them were false. There was nothing inside of me. I was just an empty husk where a person should be.


Nothing was right about me. Nobody cared about me. My dad felt like it was my fault my mother left. My sister saw through my desperate attempts to change who I was and considered me a wannabe just like the girls at school. And obviously, my mother was gone. I had never met her. And I didn't have any other living family. I was alone.


But did my loneliness matter? Did my feelings matter? Did my opinions matter, since they were all spontaneously created to match those that I spent time with? Did my weak, flimsy "friendships" matter?


Did I matter?


No. No I don't. I thought to myself, answering my own question.


My hand that was holding the blade moved it toward my wrist without myself even noticing it. My breathing was shallow and uneven. My tears hadn't stopped. They had just gotten quieter. My expression was completely blank.


I was so insignificant. I wasn't memorable in any way. I had nothing good to offer to anyone, to the world. I was nothing. I was worth nothing.


I was worthless. Absolutely worthless.


The blade suddenly moved downward in one swift motion, my skin opening, my blood dripping from the new cut and down onto the floor. For a moment it stung. It hurt. I knew it was wrong. I knew I shouldn't be doing it. But I couldn't stop. I just couldn't. My hand continued to move the razor up and down over and over, until my entire forearm looked like it was covered in red tiger stripes.


I was going to have scars from this. I knew that. They were deep. They would be permanent reminders. But I didn't care. Why should I care?


Why should I care about myself when nobody else did? What was the benefit of my existence? It didn't seem like there was one. I couldn't see one.


I added more and more cuts. The pale skin of my arm was beginning to be completely masked by a layer of blood. I felt as if I was out of my body. Like I wasn't really there. Like I mattered even less than I already believed I did. I slowly set the blade onto the sink. It was covered in blood. I looked at the floor. There was a stain of red there, sticking out like a sore thumb on the white tile.


I looked at my reflection again.


"Who are you...?" My vision was starting to blur and my head felt light. Forcing my eyes away from what must have been me, I walked out of the bathroom and staggered into my own bedroom.


I closed the door behind me and locked it. Strange, but the only concern I had at that moment was the fact that my blood was going to stain my sheets.

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