Never grow up.
72 degrees…
It’s too hot in here, she thought. She turned the dial back down to 65 degrees.
She turned her back to the thermostat and faced the stairs.
Why am I so tired…?
She stepped up the first stair with her right leg, and then put it back down on the ground.
She sighed. She was dreadfully tired. Tired of everything. Tired of school. Tired of her parents’ expectations. Tired of having to fake smiles every day. Tired of living.
Her body ached terribly. Her back hurt. Her legs were throbbing. Her boyfriend often joked that she was an old lady — physically. But it was actually her mind. Her mind was so weak, so fragile, and it made her body that way. And no matter how hard she tried to strengthen herself, she was still helpless.
She trod up the stairs, slowly. Her head was buzzing with disastrous thoughts. She had promised herself (and her boyfriend) to no longer hurt herself. He told her it would hurt him if she did. (But he didn’t have to know…)
She reached the top of the stairs and took a right turn to her bedroom. Her feet dragged across the floor and she flopped on her bed, face-first. She groaned in pain and flipped over so she could breathe.
Maybe I won’t kill myself just yet. Maybe I’ll just give myself a reminder that I’m alive, and that there could be worse pain out there.
She stood back up and walked to her bathroom. There was a cabinet there where she stored everything she didn’t want her parents to know. She slid it open and right in front of her was the switchblade she’s always used.
She stared at it. She made no move to pick it up. She thought about it, though. She thought about starting the habit of doing it once again, but she didn’t do it.
She didn’t do it.
And that made all the difference.