Insanity

The piece is about self injury, and will later on most likely become partly to do anorexia. Its a working progress.1

This is perhaps the most triggering piece that I have ever written.2

Please, for your sake; do not read this if you are triggered at the moment or can be triggered easily...3

If you do read this, then please let me know what you think of it, 4

And any suggestions for a title would be great.5

Thoughts whirled through my mind, a whirlpool of memories, thoughts and feeling condensed into this moment of time. 6

The voices spoke within my mind and the urges assaulted me constantly, fiercer and fiercer each time. The knife took its own path ever closer to my arm, my body totally controlling the movement. Slowly my flesh fell open to the blade. As the bloodstained my arm a deep crimson colour; so the memories came flooding out; each and every one of them causing me yet further pain. The depth of the cut amazed me, I had never gone so deep, nor felt so satisfied after the blood came welling to the surface. 7

Emotions flowed out, my body was a husk and it felt right. Somehow I was being drained of all the things that kept me trapped; a prisoner in my own body. 8

It was the feeling of freedom and release, of finally not having anything to blame myself about that kept me cutting, that made me take up the knife and wield it upon my body. Deep down I knew I would scar from this episode, I had gone too deep; there was only so much punishment that my body could take. 9

The blood flow grudgingly slowed, and it was time for me to close up the wounds, tend to the useless body that I inhabited. 10

I stood up, dizzy for a moment. My arm went out to steady me, knocking over an old photo album at the same time. The pages fell open to the last picture of her, of Sarah. I remembered that day, when the wind had shaken out her long, brown hair till it streamed out behind her. The way that her skin had caught the sun, and she was faintly tanned. The skirt and top that she was wearing, hugging her body, but not showing anything off. I had taken it when she wasn’t looking at me, so her gaze was off to the right, at the river and the little kids that had been running on the banks. 11

She had only seen that picture once, when I had been going through my developed films, and had been compiling the album. She had made an unexpected visit on that day and had seen the picture, almost demanding that I keep it, and put it in that album. 12

She had put the photo in the plastic pocket and then shut the heavy album. I smiled at the memory of what had happened later on, when she had sat down and we had started talking. My laptop had been playing some music, and she had stood up, beckoned to me. I had stood near her and she pulled me towards her, wanting to dance yet again. And so we did, and as the song ended we had kissed for the first time. We had stayed like that for just a few moments, finally at peace. Then she had broken away, and we continued like nothing had happened, talking and laughing, play fighting as we always did. Much later on she had stayed for a sleep over, and she had lain with me on my bed as we once again talked till she fell asleep in my arms. 13

It was amazing how vivid the memory was after so many years. I shook off the memory, picking up the album and placing it on the shelf with all the others. 14

I looked over at the digital alarm clock on my bedside table, it was late, school beckoned and I had to answer its call. I dressed quickly, throwing on the crumpled shirt and dark jeans that I could not be separated from. My wallet went in one pocket, and my blade went into the other. I picked up my bag and then without a backward glance walked out from my room and down to the kitchen. My mother was fussing around trying to organise her and the entire family at the same time. My father was sitting in his chair, reading the local paper and eating another tasteless bowl of cereal. My two little brothers were charging everywhere, fighting and laughing. They had just learnt to walk, and so we found them everywhere where we didn’t want them. I picked them both up and placed them in the high chairs so that my mother could feed them. 15

And Leana was once again fussing with her makeup, looking into the small hand mirror that she kept in her rucksack constantly. Of all my family I was closest to Leana, my little sister. She looked good, rolled up shirt, skirt coming halfway down her thighs. I smiled; she looked fine already, just fussing for its own sake. 16

I smiled; it was just another day, not yet marked by anything. I walked over to the side door, my own rucksack on my back. 17

"Oi Leana, come on!" I shouted for her to follow me outside. 18

"One second!" she shouted back, and finished fussing.19

My bike was leaning on its stand, the keys in the ignition and the helmets waiting on the seat for us. I took both helmets, passed one to Leana and then sorted out my own one. I sat down on the bike waiting for Leana. When she wrapped her arms around me I started the engine and we rode off. The ride was short, only ever about 20 minutes, but I always tried to overtake cars, trying to make it just a little bit faster than the last time. I loved the adrenalin rush that went through me; it allowed me to feel just a little less numb, more alive than I usually would. 20

Too soon we pulled up to the school and I parked the bike. The helmets were locked away under the seat and the ignition keys went with me. We trundled along for a little bit, then took our separate ways to our first lessons. Once more I became like a ghost, weaving down the corridors packed with people, but being recognized by none, not even acknowledged as being there. I was part of the background. 21

My first classroom came up, and I ducked through the pale blue door, with its chipped paint and rattling door handle. I walked casually to my normal desk, dead centre. 22

The chair was missing and so I "borrowed" one from the space in front of me. 23

I sat down once again, my mind already away in the clouds, thinking about what the weekend had been like. In small groups people filtered in and filled up the empty spaces. The chatter slowly grew in volume, till it reached a crescendo of meaningless babble. But no-one tried to talk to me, I was the class outcast. Made so, for I was so different from them all; they never tried to breach my silent defences. Unlike them, I was here to learn, not to waste my time flirting or arguing with the teachers. 24

The teacher finally came in followed by a young woman, perhaps in her early 20's. 25

The lines of her face were sharp, high cheekbones gave her face character. Even though it was really warm in the room she was still heavily dressed, long sleeved blouse and a full length skirt. I could see that she was sweating heavily. 26

Mr Lambert introduced the student teacher to us, and she wrote her name down on the board in a flowery, relaxed manner, and then with slow half turn faced us. 27

"As you can see I am Miss Blake. As Mr Lambert said I am going to be taking you for the next term or two. Apparently you haven’t done much creative writing this year, and so I will be taking this module and hopefully by the end you will have a greater understanding of how to use language in any piece of creative writing. First of all what kinds of creative writing are there?"28

A few hands went up and some suggestions were thrown at her.29

“Poetry”30

“Stories”31

“Play scripts”32

“Novels”33

She wrote them down in a spider diagram; again she turned to us and looked around. Her eyes sparkled and she seemed more confident than she had done just a few minutes ago. 34

“Have any of you ever written poetry?” she asked. Only two hands went up, Elaine and this other girl in the front two rows. 35

“What kind of subject was it about?” she asked, smiling at the girls, thankful that someone had put their hands up, had admitted to writing poetry. 36

“This boy who never noticed me, who lives his life like I am not there…” whispered Elaine, looking to her right discreetly, at the guy next to her. He was a rugby player for the school, pretty good in practice, but not the nicest guy on the team. 37

Of course, the guy she was talking about wasn’t looking at her, was actually staring out of the window into the blank space. Arrogant bastard that he was, he didn’t care for the lesson, no doubt his rich father would give him a cushy job in the company, not caring, so long as the son was ok. The guy annoyed me, never making any visible effort in any of his lessons, he was just there to satisfy the school and the law it seemed. 38

“It’s a great idea, hopeless love or something like that right?” Miss Blake sounded pretty amazed that some one had come up with such an idea. 39

I knew that I wouldn’t be able to submit anything this lesson, I was not a poet. I preferred writing a piece of a monologue or just a normal story, nothing ever came of them. They were hidden away and rarely saw the light of day again. I was too much of a private person. 40

Then for a moment I was lost in the memory of the first time I had cut. The way that I had been curled over my arm, bleeding freely as the knife once again plunged down. About how I had felt so alone yet happy at the time.41

I started talking without even thinking about it, just letting the words flow out of me.42

"Feel so empty inside43

The world moves on44

I am left behind45

Crimson tears are bled46

The world moves on 47

Uncaring."48

For a moment I attracted stares from the others, and then the silence was broken by the teacher. 49

“Powerful stuff, what were you thinking about when you thought of this one?” she asked, sitting down on the desk, one leg crossed over the other. 50

“Nothing; it just came out. A memory of long ago”51

“Powerful memory, dark thoughts. What did you mean by crimson tears?”52

“ I was thinking about blood, the way that there are people who will not cry in the way that most people cry, instead taking a knife to their flesh and cutting it open, so that the blood flows freely, and they feel the sense of release that way.” My voice was gruff in my ears, and I could feel the heat rising into my face, I was blushing.53

“And when you say you feel empty inside, what do you mean?”54

“The coming down from the high, about how you feel drained and numb inside. About how it means that your able to cope for just that little bit longer, and keep trying to help others, before the vessel that is the body is once again too full. When that happens, you once again cut to feel good. It’s a vicious circle.”55

“Pleasure versus pain?” she asked56

“Something like that” I smiled; she had understood it faster than most people did. But then again most people didn’t understand how it was possible to feel good after what self injury did to the body, destroying it so easily, in such a controlled manner. And how we could hide it under the clothes, not trusting anyone to be near us in case the secret came out.57

It was a life of fear that we all led, every single day that took no prisoners, you either survived it or you didn’t, there was no in between. At least none that I had ever been able to find. But then again I had never found the need to try and find the middle ground. I no longer cared about trying to stop, it had never been an idea for me, and I needed the bright steel kiss too regularly upon my skin for me to be able to stop.58

So far I had been able to hide it from all the people who had become so damn curious about why I was always in such “weird” clothing, my dark jeans and shirts setting me apart from the rest of the people who came in wearing their cheap plastic tracksuits and “gold” jewellery.59