Single-word Writing Prompt: CUT

Trigger Warning: self-harm

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Badump. Badump.

That is all I hear. All of a sudden, my heart decides to be loud. As if it is the only thing that can make a sound. Not the sound of the dripping water from the sink. Not the other students walking outside in the hallway. Just my heart.

I take a deep breath. And there it is—the tears. I’m glad I held it in long enough to be hidden from other people. I don’t need more eyes to see me breaking. Weak.

In this cubicle, alone, hiding gives me the solace that I need. To be lost in my thoughts. To cry. To save myself. To compose myself. To regain the balance that I lost when his hand landed on my right cheek.

The embarrassment is there. The pain. The hurt. I know I did all the right things. I know I answered all of his questions. I know I said what he wanted to hear. Yet, here I am. Trying to hold the pieces of myself together as much as I can.

I need some kind of release. Some kind of relief.

I feel my left hand reaching for the hidden pocket of my school uniform. I sigh as my fingers touch the coldness of the only safety I know. The coldness that gives me peace.

I take it out of my pocket. Stare at it for a while. Such a small thing. Insignificant. But to me, it holds the quietness I need. This insignificant thing has the power to give my sanity back.

I carefully lift my white skirt. I press it against my thigh. I breathe as the coldness touches my skin. I let it envelop me in calmness. And as my heart quiets down, I press harder and slowly move it against my skin.

I watch as the blood starts to trickle out. Mesmerized as the red stains my skin. I continue pressing and moving it against my skin with practiced slowness. The slower I move, the longer I cut, the calmer I feel. The more my heart relaxes. The more I hear the sounds around me. The more the world comes alive. The more I feel alive.

I take one last deep breath before I stop. I stare at the perfectly straight line I just made, bright red against the other straight lines on my thigh. I don’t admire it. It’s not art. It’s a sign that I am breaking. That I am lost. I grab my handkerchief to wipe my thigh clean. Careful not to stain my white skirt. This is the last thing that I need people to know about me.

I leave the cubicle, and my reflection greets me. I smile as if nothing happened. I know why everything resulted to this. I know why I do this. I know that I should not be doing this. But right now, I am powerless to stop, especially if this is the only thing that makes me feel alive.