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You have never experienced this sort of pure terror.  Well, perhaps once that time when you were driving home from school.  But the terror then was contained within the metal of the car and the confines of your head.  But that was different.  Then you could not breath for sobbing, screams, moans, wrenching your body as you drove.  At least then you had something to do, stay on the road.  Now, all you have is yourself. 
You sit in your room, the room that you have had since your parents re-did the house.  You can remember what it looked like when the room was still theirs.  Remember using their shower cause it was the adult bathroom and you felt special and grown-up doing so.  But you can’t see anything clearly.  Everything is fuzzy.  Its kinda funny how right at this moment in time, sitting in pure terror at your desk, past and present are both remarkably out of focus.  The future isn’t even a factor any more.  It’s not even there.  All that you can feel is terror.  Nothing else will come.
And yet, the bathroom still draws your attention through the haze that is your mind.  You seek something, anything, to relieve yourself. 
The only problem is you are not really sure what you are trying to rid yourself of.  But something needs to go.  Anything is better than the terror-filled fog, the sameness. 
So you get up, wiping un-cried tears from your cheeks.  You heart beats faster as you walk across your room to the tiny white tiled bathroom, trying to figure out what it is exactly you are going to do.
You’ve had the idea before.  It scared you then so you passed it off.  You were able to walk away.  But the past is fuzzy.  What was wrong before seems like a viable option now.  It’s still scary.  It’s still the wrong thing to do.  You think it is bad, shameful to display such weakness.  You aren’t this bad.  And you keep walking, the fear of yourself, the never-ending darkness within you, pushing you forward.  At this point anything has to be better than right now. 
It gets to the point where it is all you can think about.  It has to be a relief right?  Not to mention the first time that you tried you fucked up.  It didn’t last.  Nothing lasts. 
The tile is cold on your feet as you enter the bathroom.  You notice every imperfection, every smudge, hair, stain, chip.  They all hurt.  Looking in the full-length mirror on the other side of the door you can see yourself imperfect, smudgy, dirty, hairy, stained, broken, used.  You absently scratch at the toothpaste residue in the sink, trying to uncover the white porcelain underneath.  But no, all you come away with is white minty stuff under your nails and another mar on the surface of the used sink. 
Tears start to fall.  But unlike the time in the car, you are not wracked with such internal pain that you can’t help but scream.  No matter how you try though, you cannot be completely silent.  Some of the pain escapes your tightly closed lips.  Plopping down on the closed toilet seat you feel completely defeated.  Then looking up, you see through your glass shower door. 
The glass is stained with old droplets of water.  But you can still see a tinge of pink sitting in the soap dish built into the shower wall.  It would be so easy to do.  One small cut, just to feel something other than dark.  It’s not fun to fear yourself.  Not what you will do to yourself, that would be a relief.  You just fear the never-ending nothingness inside of your head.  You fear the emptiness inside your heart.  The pink is the only light that you can see. 
You can’t get the idea out of your head.  The damage is already done.  Essentially.  And no one will know.  You have your excuses ready.  Neighbor’s cat.  Closing the white bathroom door behind you, pushing it shut until you hear the click, you reach in to your shower and grab the pink razor blade and sit back down.  There is a light residue of shaving cream along the edges of the razor.  The metal is clean though.  You make sure of that.  You don’t want to do anything too stupid.  Looking at your forearm you realize that part of you, the small little kid that still remains, hidden, locked away in your head, safe from the darkness, wants someone to find out.  But your excuses are planned.
Ever so lightly, the razor descends to rest on your skin, two inches below your watchband.  So pale, so smooth.  Why can’t it be messed up like how you actually feel?  Why can the most horrible thing you could imagine, the worst form of hate, a disease you would never wish on your worst enemy, not show itself?  Part of you simply wants to look how you feel, even if it is for you and you alone.  So you say anyway. 
You can’t feel the razor’s bite the first time.  In a state of perfect calm, the trance of giving up, the razor leaves four horizontal white lines across your smooth skin, not leaving a single cut.  They fade away as the blood returns. 

This is dumb. 

You can’t do this to yourself! 

You place the razor gently back at your starting point.  This time, you press down a little harder.  Shifting the razor ever so slightly to the right, you feel what you have been searching for: the bite.  Something to wake you up, even if it is only for a spilt second.  But that bite, the stinging of the small paper-cut like marks on your perfectly pale skin, opens a door in your head.  You become angry.  Angry at the world, angry at yourself.  Mainly yourself.  Angry is okay.  Angry is good.  At least it’s an emotion.  At least there is a tangible feeling now.
Now you push harder still and race across your arm, leaving four trails behind.  There must have been a mar in one of the blades.  It has ripped off a light layer of skin, leaving a stripe of rawness underneath.  But it is the line underneath your exposed layers bleeds first.  A thin red line oozes up under the sliced skin.  But it stops, your skin holding it in. 
Each time is deeper, harder, easier.  The first cut has now started to bleed freely, more sections of skin going missing.  Clear, lymph fluid mixes in, making drips run down your arm.  The lines of blood run down your arm reaching more and more rows of cuts.  Five times in perfect matching rows down your pale, perfect skin.  They sting.  Every bite, every tooth you can feel. 

It feels so good.

You relax ever so slightly, feeling better now that at least some of the darkness is side of you has been able to escape.  At least now there is something physical, something tangible, something that people can see hurts.  But you can’t stop.  As soon as you stop, the fear returns.  The pain shuts down the fear.  The razor continues slicing, pulling across your forearm.  All you can see is the trails of four left behind.  It’s all you can think about.  You continue down the column that you have made.  You make each cut faster, pressing harder, ripping off more layers of skin each swipe.  The razor leaves but the sting remains.  A reminder of something different.  A reminder that there is something else in your shit filled mind other than darkness, other than hopelessness.  Other than fear.  Your jaw is clenched so tightly that it aches.  More pain.  Blessed pain.
Afterwards, the anger ebbed, the depression taking its place, you look down at your creation.  You just hope it lasts.  You almost can’t stop yourself from starting again.  But the razor is heavy, the metal coated with blood and bits of smooth, pink skin.  You are tired, exhausted, giving up.

Giving in.

Your heartbeat slows.  You are left alone.  The clear fluid has hardened, trying to protect the body you have just marred.  Running your fingertips over each row of ooze, you dislodge the makeshift scabs.  You are not ready to have this heal.  You still need to see the gloss of wetness, feel the dampness of fluid over flowing the confines of the cuts.  All the skin in between each of the four lines is gone.  The bite is good.  Your fingers come away sticky and red, smeared messes left behind.  Your skin is swollen, oozing.  Sitting on the lid of the toilet, your palm facing up, you realize that your perfect arm finally shows a minute semblance of how you feel.