MicroCuts

Micro-cuts          

By Brendan Olson



         Sitting in my bedroom, it feels like a cushy prison. I donât even know why. I toss and turn on the sad little couch that has been designated as my bed. The rusty old springs protruding through cushion leave a familiar sting on my back. The revolting yellow stained pillow propping my head up is a sad metaphor of my life. As it was once fresh and clean, protected from the world by an all-cotton pillow case, it is now raw and exposed to all of the potential stains that would befall it. I chuckled at this thought.

         I turned my attention to my grandfatherâs knife. It was time to get started on what I called âme-timeâ. I flipped it open and the aged blade stared me down, disgusted, and yet it still seeming to call for what I was going to do with it. Bringing the blade to my left forearm I pressed it down about half as hard as I could. Right as I started to slide the blade downwards, my phone vibrated. I sighed, almost ignoring it, but gradually convinced myself to read the pending text.

My mother was asking me to come upstairs. I immediately began to regret reading it. I placed the knife on the table without closing it, and prodded myself off of the couch, starting for the stairs. Before I began my ascent, I glanced back at the basement with a subtle and loathsome rage. I hated this place; but only as much as I needed it. The dingy darkness acted like a blanket made of thorns. It warmed and protected me, even as it tore my skin.

         As I opened the basement door, the sun hit me and I squinted until my eyes could adjust. I strolled over to the kitchen and noticed my mother glancing over the mail. I hadnât thought she noticed me when she stepped in front of me and held me in her flower scented death grasp.

Let me introduce my mother. She is an incredibly loving, but in a way that is more annoying than sincere. She wasnât a person who tried to buy love, but was so incredibly affectionate that people (my father and I) couldnât help forgive any mistake she had made.

         As she let me go, she told me she loved me, and then pranced upstairs with some unknown purpose. I felt like I should have been aggravated, but emotions donât come to me that easily. That probably sounds a little ridiculous, but it was my own form of anti-depressant. Side effects may include long periods of numbness tinted with bits of self-loathing.

         Most people cut for attention, I donât. Well, maybe I do, and I am just fooling myself, but it helps me handle things. I love to see how much I bleed. If a lot comes out, I feel like I have, I guess, accomplished something. That probably sounds ridiculous too. Even as I think about it, it sounds like a lot of bullshit. Truth is I am just too much of pussy to kill myself. I donât know what you think, but slitting my wrists just sounds absolutely horrible. Pills seem like the best way to go. There is no way Iâll ever bring myself to do it though.

         Ever think about what your funeral will be like? When I am driving, I always imagine myself getting into a horrible accident, and then I try to picture my funeral. I always see it as a sunny day, but not hot. The most perfect weather you could ever imagine. Everyone is dressed in normal funeral garb. My mother and father are there, obviously, but my attention always turns to what will people say in their eulogies. This is probably my blatant narcissism leaking out of my subconscious through my conscious thoughts. Everyone always says they donât want people to be sad at their funerals. But I do. Not because I like to see people sad, but if somebody is sad about something, it means that they cared about that thing. It comforts me to think that somebody actually cares about me.

         Heading back downstairs, I feel the cold warmth of my basements darkness creeping up on me again. The wobbly brown fan that makes me nervous every time I sit under was humming at me. I grasped my knife off of the table and sat back down on the couch. I put the blade back up to my skin and pushed down again. The sharp tingle that was so familiar hit me. It stung so beautifully. The tension in my shoulders released, and a single droplet of blood raised from my skin and slid down the curve of my arm, onto my sock. My brain pulsed with serotonin.

         I laid my head down and closed my eyes. Stars danced across my eyelids. I flipped from lying on my side, to my back. The couch was cool, and it felt nice against my red hot skin. A smile crept over my face. My ears were ringing. I opened my eyes, and everything I had just been feeling disappeared. My heart sank into my stomach, and my eyes widened as big as they could go. My father was standing half way down the stairs, glaring at me.

         My father is an amazing man. He works 60 hours a week to keep my family in the upper middle class. He comes home every night, and manages to keep a great relationship with my sister and I. More so me. I look up to him, and use him as a guide, though I may not always follow. He talks to me like a normal human being. He is my friend, and I couldnât live without him. He is a lot of the reason I wonât kill myself. I donât want him to find me. I feel like I owe more to him then to put him through the death of his son.

         His cold eyes are dripping with sadness. I am paralyzed with fear. He finally blinks, and walks back up the stairs. I hear him call for my mother, and then he calls for me next. I pull my sleeve down, and start up the stairs. This should be interesting.