Breaking For Me--a scene

---

Warm rays of light shine in through my bedroom curtains, lighting up the room as I lie in bed. I hear a slight click, and know without looking that my boyfriend locked the door on his way out. he must have forgotten how I hate when the door is shut. I roll off the bed, landing on the floor with my knees. I fix my gaze on the point right between them. For several minutes, I sit there, thinking of nothing. My eyes go unfocused. Heartbeat slowing, I curl my hands into fists and place them at my side, my nails biting into my palms. then suddenly, I whip my head toward the window at the sound of a bird, singing a small song. The pink curtains sway lazily in the morning breeze; I must have left the window open. I smile to myself. Crawling over to the window, a sweet kind of sadness comes over me. I gaze out at the dirty lawn and the littered concrete and take in the leftover smell of cigarette smoke. without thinking, I place a hand to the windowsill and begin to swing my legs over, my bare feet landing on the damp and grassless soil. The breeze whistles through my hair and tickles goosebumps across my bare arms. My eyes scan across the mass of destruction that’s been home to me ever since I was born. My gaze land on something shining in the dirt a few feet from me. A razor. My razor. I distinctively remember chunking it out of the same window I had just crawled out of. After a year, it’s still here. My mind begins to flood with bad memories; the late nights; the blood I wiped off the counter; the long sleeves I had started wearing. The scars on my left shoulder and forearm and wrists tingle with recognition. It has been a year since I had stopped. A whole year... yet I still don’t feel any better. I remember being in a terrible state of agony and anguish every time I had cut. But I feel fine as I reach down and take the small blade in my hand. you are a survivor, my therapist used to tell me. but somehow, I feel as if I'm still a hostage. Taken out of the comfort of my sanity and understanding and kicked into a world where everything is undiscovered and red and alone. I bring the blade up to my wrist and feign slitting it across the scars that are already there. reopen them, let all the dark secrets out into the open, for all to see. But we can’t do that. We can’t let mom think she messed up somehow, can’t let dad know he doesn't pay enough attention, can’t let the world know it’s done this to me. But Mom did and Dad doesn’t, and the world has. but if I cut, I’ll hurt everyone, not just myself. If I cut, I’ll slice right through the stability of our home. if I show them I’m already hurting, I’ll wreck everyone’s healing. so I don’t. because they’re sanity is more important than mine. I can tell my parent’s patience is wearing. They think I was acting then, they’ll think I'm acting now. I thought I was better. but nothing’s changed. I’m still here, even though I could’ve sworn I left this place for good. then I do something drastic. I take the blade, squeeze my eyes shut, and take it to the spot right above my right knee. I rest the sharp edge against my clear skin, remembrance causing tears to prick my eyes. I recall every hour, every night, spent doing this exact same thing. The years I spent covering myself up, more and more, to hide the scars. The scars and the pain and the struggling. I put a little pressure on the small blade. but then I remember the years after my depression. The shame of my scars, the happiness I got when I thought they were drying out and healing. The oil I’d rub on them every night, the citrusy smell of it. my eyes snap open. I can’t just throw that away and start all over. I quickly chuck the blade as hard as I can. I watch it sail across the littered yard, out of sight. I turn to the window and topple inside. I plop onto my bed and sob. The tears come hot and heavy. out with them come the sorrow and the grief and the loneliness that have been pent up for years. I give into the feeling of anguish, the feeling that no one but me knows. I let the heaving melody echo throughout my body, setting the tone of my thoughts. this is for the better. We will get better. And I want to believe that. I do. but I can’t bring myself to think of the future, not when the present is so vivid. soon, when my face is dry and my limbs are working, I’ll try to think. I’ll try to be healed. To be whole. But for now, I’m breaking. But I’m breaking for me.