Hate

I soaked up the silence of my room like a sponge. The quiet allowed me to think about my life. Nothing ever seemed to go right and I was fed up. My dad was constantly blaming me for my parents' divorce, everyone at school was always putting me down - calling me a worthless piece of shit and telling me to drop dead to finally please somebody. It was all because I was different. They thought I was a freak with my dyed raven black hair, my all black wardrobe and fishnets and combat boots. No one wanted to be my friend, they all wanted to make my life a living hell.
My father was no better than the kids at school. The constant blame of the divorce hanging over my head created a worse environment than school. He always let me know that I wasn't loved, that everything bad that ever happened around the house or in the family was my fault. When a relative died, it was because of me. When something in the house wasn't working properly it was because I broke it. My company was never welcomed, especially if my father had company. I stayed locked up in my room every day hating life, hating the kids at school, hating my father, but mostly hating myself.
That's where I am now, sitting alone in my room hating myself. My walls were painted the same color black as my hair was dyed so that I could have uninterrupted darkness and my curtains were drawn shut. The darkness was relaxing but wouldn't let me forget my life. I had the feeling that I wanted to cry, cry like I'd never cried before. I wanted the tears to wash away all my problems, but that never happened and I had cried myself out for the day. Now I had nothing left to feel but hatred.
I opened my desk drawer from where I sat on my bed and searched for my razor blade. My fingers found the blade and pulled it free of all the junk in the drawer. The sharp edges of the blade were stained with blood.
My soft pale skin that stretched across my wrist was covered with old scars and a few fresh ones. They ran all the way up my arm and down my other arm. That was another reason the people at school thought I was a freak; the cuts were somewhat visible through my long fishnet sleves. The only reason my dad doesn't know about the cuts is because he doesn't care enough about me to figure it out.
The edge of the blade in my open palm looked so inviting. I touched the cold metal to the underside of my elbow and pressed the corner into my soft flesh. A small pinprick of scarlett blood appeared around the blade. There was a small tremor of pain that ran the length of my arm and dissolved into a numbing sensation.
I dug the blade deeper into my skin and started to carve the word "hate" into my forearm. My breathing was shallow as the pain in my arm increased and numbed. The beautiful blood smelled strongly of iron and ran seductively down my arm when I finished carving the "E" in hate.
My eyes lingered on the blood as it dripped off my arm and onto my comforter. The iron smell wafted up to my nose, sending chills through my body and causing my eyes to roll back into my head. I couldn't control it any longer. I brought my bleeding arm to my lips and I licked away at the blood. The taste was strange but pleasing, just the way it always was.
The blood continued to ooze from the cuts into my mouth. Eventually the cuts on my arm ran dry. My lips were stained with my own blood. The word "hate" showed clearly on my arm with all the blood cleaned away. I stared at the word lovingly and touched it lightly with my index finger. It was still tender to the touch and I cringed at the pain. It felt fantastic.
The razor blade was drenched in my blood. I wiped the wet blood on my comforter that slightly resembled the crime scene of numerous murders. I placed the blade back in the drawer under all the junk. My little cutting time made me feel better, but I knew the feeling would wear off in a few minutes. For now I choose to dwell in my good feeling because I know that tomorrow the whole thing will play out again.

Author notes

Hatred

Option three: agony and hate

A contest entry

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Comments

1 - 7 of 7

  • Prodigious.Mirth
    May 30

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    One thing I would suggest for further readers is that maybe you break the paragraphs apart for easier reading. I think it would make it a whole lot easier for the reading process. - Now onto the good stuff- The feed back which I am sure that you want right?

    Firstly I think everyone goes through a phase in their lives where they end up choosing a stereotypical identity - Goth, indie, emo ect to give themselves some identity apart from who they really are. This is chosen by the clothes they wear and their appearance to depict their moods. I think obviously before we even read on we know that despite the father blaming the child for everything wrong in their lives - especially his [which is wrong and immoral because everyone makes life choices] We know she suffers a kind of disappointment, despair and sadness.

    As a self harmer myself. Being much in the same position a lot of the times during my childhood and dressing the same way to depict my behavior and surrounding influences I believe you did justice to the story of this young girl.

    The guilt- denial-pleasure-then the knowledge of it not being exactly what she anticipated and knowing it would be a temporary belief was brilliantly cast. And I love how you ended it.

    ;] great Job.
    Keep writing.
    Blair


  • try2changeme
    January 11

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    very good..you put a lot of emotion, hate, pain, sadness into th estory and it showed. in the 3rd paragraph, second sentence, it could be changed a bit.. maybe just take out the words 'was dyed'.. the whole act of cutting yourself is deeply described there, and i loved it


  • TNTrouble
    October 7, 2008

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    Ahhh I love how you describe the act of self injury here...been there done that. Carving the word "hate" makes it all the more interesting. Good work...

  • HoneyAngel
    September 9, 2008

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    This is an alright piece. It's a little angsty but not so much so. You descibed things well for such a short piece, and I don't think there is a way to make it longer without ruining what the piece is supposed to be about.

    Good job and good luck.

    Angel.


  • Reaver Greeters member
    August 16, 2008

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    Very well written. Wish i could have seen it better though, couldn't hide the background...but it was really descriptive and heart felt. Brilliant job! Keep writing and thanks for entering my contest. Rian


  • NosferatuWoman
    July 30, 2008

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    Real to the Core

    Ok. This was so vivid. I can see the entire thing happening. You did an excellent job creating a mood. The pain is palpable. This touches a nerve with me. I have a friend who feels this way and if she could write this good, I would swear I was reading her diary. Right down to the word HATE now scarred into her skin. This is a very well written story which beggs me to ask the question - is this real or is it fiction?


    • xXSongxxofxxLifeXx
      July 30, 2008
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      I'm glad you thought it was good. And to answer your question, the emotions are true (the self-hatred and shit) but the events are completely fiction. I have never done that nor would I ever do that.

1 - 7 of 7