So this is a completely different genre for me. I suspect this story may be a bit on the lame, trying-too-hard side of things, but I thought I might as well give it a go anyway. Enjoy.


The blood gushed out of my arm, pulsing in time with my frantic heartbeat.

The first time I had taken a razor to my wrist, I had only made a shallow cut. More out of curiosity then anything else. I had been mesmerised by the ruby droplets welling on my wrist. The contrast of crimson against the delicate blue of my veins and the ashen complexion of my skin was hypnotic.

I had never thought my ugly body was capable of producing something so utterly beautiful, so perfect.

The second time I had tried, I had cut deeper. I only had blunt scissors stolen from the art block. The dull blade dragged across my skin, scraping jagged wounds. I became frustrated when I couldn't get the same neat lines and perfectly formed droplets. It was so messy. I cut deeper then I meant to, upset that I had thought I had finally found something I was good at, only to find out that I had managed to fuck that up too. Just like everything else in my meaningless, screwed up failure of a life.

However, in the chaotic spill of so much blood, I found a new love. The way I could finally make it hurt so much on the outside, a way that people would finally see was real.

When I had first told my parents what it was like, the teasing at school, the whispered words and loathsome looks that haunted me, they had said it wasn't real. I was making it up, exaggerating.

I looked at the cherry blood leaking from my arm. Is this real enough for you? I wanted to scream, to let everyone know just how fucked up I was inside. If I was exaggerating, then why did I finally find the slightest scrap of happiness in the dizzy, surreal feeling the blood loss gifted me?

The more it hurt, the better I felt. The more I cut, the more clothes, bracelets, makeup I had to wear to hide it. The more I tried to hide, the more they teased and taunted. More, more, more.

It was getting too much.

Soon I was cutting whenever I could. It got harder, as my parents grew more and more suspicious and started hiding the sharper instruments that I could have used. It got to the point where I was using anything I could find: a stolen café knife, sharp shells from the beach, a Stanley knife poached from the art rooms. Once I even used a discarded needle I found on the street. I was addicted.

My epiphany came one day when I slashed so deep I passed out. In the murky haze of my memory I will never forget the surge of absolute happiness, pure and perfect, I felt when I believed I had finally died.

Then the devastating plummet to complete despair as I realised I was still here, broken on the floor doused in my heart blood.

In that abyss of darkness I found my ray of light, my shining beacon of hope. Suicide. My tantalising brush with death revealed that there was a way out, a way to never again be trapped in this black vortex, which was day by day sucking me further into the deepest pit of hell.

Suicide. Everyone thought it was the easy option, the cowards way out. What they didn't realise was it was the hardest thing you could ever do.

Even though my life felt like one abysmal failure after another, the thought of leaving literally everything I had ever known was terrifying. It was almost too scary to consider. To leave it all behind, for what?

But these thoughts never lasted long. All it took was one insult, one cruel look and thoughts of leaving it all behind, forever, came flooding into the forefront of my mind.

Forever. It was a long time, my counsellor had told me. No shit, woman. That was why suicide was so seductive to me. To have an airtight guarantee that I would never have to return to this cesspit of a half life. To escape the cruel monster of depression for an eternity.

There wasn't just the promise of freedom, the idea of escape that provided the allure. There was that thrill of excitement I felt when I considered what could await me. The only time I could feel any emotion other then mind numbing desolation was considering what could be next. The discover the unseen infinity that awaited me.

There was a whole world out there, uncharted and unknown, just waiting for me. Calling.

Even if it wasn't the eternity of bliss promised by the bible, it had to be better then this. Anything would. A world without pain. A world without fear.

My blood was gushing faster now. Pulsing. Throbbing. Pounding. Like it couldn't wait to escape my miserable body either. I was so dizzy I could barely think straight.

Blood. So much blood. The crimson was consuming, staining my vision. There was no going back this time, I realised. I had shredded an artery, I could feel my life quickly pouring from me.

...It was nice, I supposed. To final have some measure of control. My mother had said I could do nothing about their means words, their cruel glares.

Well. I was doing something now. I was dying, yet all I felt was an overwhelming happiness.

My lucidity was leaving me. Slowing drifting into unconsciousness, I couldn't suppress the smile stretching across my lips. It wouldn't be a nice thing to find, a grinning corpse drenched in blood. But I couldn't bring myself to care. It was nearly time.

Blood. Blood. So much red.

Then black.

Free. Finally. I was free at last.

HERE LIES COURTNEY SMITH
Born 1996 – Died 2011
BELOVED DAUGHTER AND SISTER
FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS


So... thoughts everyone?