Scarred

Slowly, robotically, I drag the blade across the porcelain-white underside of my wrist, over and over, gradually, until the thin red lines begin to inch up my forearm, almost reaching the crook of my elbow. Why can't I do anything right? Why am I so stupid? Why am I so worthless?!
These negative thoughts flow from my welts, bathing my skin in crimson hatred. Those marks have been a part of me since I was only sixteen, and I can't picture myself without them. My "fretboard," I call it.....I really wanted to be a folk guitarist and singer when I grew up, but no..there's no money in that, they said. So here I am, a prominent, well-to-do lawyer, with everything, and nothing.

It happened again today, in a glaring headline on the front page of the New York Times: "Girl, 6, is raped, then murdered. Whereabouts of John Blackheart still uncertain."
Why?!? Why had I agreed to take his case?! In a matter of hours, my cool, diplomatic words had proved this man's innocence, and turned him loose, back onto the streets, to prey on small children, like that girl. Innocence.....it's a funny word. Sure, I know Blackheart never murdered the cashier at HMV, but "innocent?!" "Innocent?!?!" What kind of world do we live in where that word is used to describe a soulless monster like him?! The poor little girl in the paper is one of the lucky ones. She doesn't have to live with the memories. The unlucky ones, however, don't have it so good. Thrust. Scream. Maybe a few drops of blood. Then the memory, a permanent stain in the pristine-white world of childhood. Those children are the ones who are truly innocent.
Cut.....slice.....drip....drip. If only those children could see me now. How could I explain, to their wide-eyed, cherubic faces, what I did? If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, it's a fucking four-lane expressway.