The not so normal life of a teenager, Brittany Richards [latest books to read .txt] 📗

I extended my arm in front of me, and drug the small blade slowly across my arm. Blood started to pour out of the small slice. I did it again a little lower form the first one. Tears started to blur my vision, as I made yet another small cut below the two I had already made. The pain was relieving. I felt like an artist, painting a picture of my pain, my hurt.
I dug the blade in one of my already made gashes, careful not to cut too deep, but to give me more satisfaction. I wouldn't call it satisfaction, but more like pleasure.
By this time both the razor blade and my arm was stained crimson red with blood. Tears were flowing out my eyes. I tried to control them, but by this point, there was no hope. There was no hope for anything. Blood still poured out of the cuts on my arm, making a mess everywhere. I knew I had to clean up soon before my mother found out.
I went to stand up when there was a loud knock on my door. 'Shit,' I thought to myself. I stood up as quickly as I could and hid the razor out of sight. I suddenly thought about my arm, how the hell was I supposed to hide that. I grabbed the nearest black sweater and put it on. I put it on just in time, for the door suddenly flew open. I sat back down on my bed and pulled the sheets over m legs, trying to hide the rest of the evidence.
My mother stormed into the room, looking pissed as always. I looked over at her and put down the book that I quickly grabbed when I pulled the sheets over me.
"Yes?" I asked her.
At first she didn’t say anything. "What the hell are you doing, Katie? Were you fucking crying?" she said in a harsh voice.
I rubbed my eyes, trying to hide the fact that I did.
"No, why would you say that?" I asked, trying to keep a straight face. I hoped that she wouldn't find out that I was lying.
"Whatever," she said and stormed out. I didn't quite understand what that was about, but knowing my mother, she might not have had a reason.
After she left, I quickly got up, and grabbed my razor. I took a tissue and tried my best to wipe it off, I'd have to bleach it later, but this had to work for now. Opening the drawer to my dresser, I placed the small blade in the back of the drawer, making sure it was hidden from sight. I pulled some clothes out of the drawer, and headed to the bathroom. I needed to clean myself off.
By this now my cuts had already stopped bleeding, which made things a hell of a lot easier.
Throwing my clothes on the floor of the bathroom, I walked quickly over to the door and turned the lock on it. I quickly striped while turning on the water, and jumped into the shower. The water made my arm burn but also cleaned it out. It took a good scrubbing to get all the blood off, but it looked like nothing ever happened when I was done. The only thing that showed it had happened was the deep cuts on my right arm.

I wouldn't tell anyone what I had done to myself. I worried that people would judge me instead of help me.
I cut to forget about the emotional pain that my parents had put me through, and looked at the physical pain instead. In my mind, it sort of helped me through life.
Having an abusive, alcoholic mother, that though she had no reason, she would still come up with one to hurt you. My father is the person that, if he could, would leave you on the streets to fend for yourself. My father is also abusive but not to the extent as my mother. He would also sell you to someone just for money, so he can go buy his damn drugs, he's an addict.
When I was about ten my father had left my mom for some whore he met at a bar. She was furious and almost killed him. My father had called the cops and got her arrested. My mother went to jail for about five years for many different things, most of which I have no idea what they are. I went to live with my father, it was horrible. He likes to get high a lot, and so did his girlfriend.
About a year after I started living with my father, he thought it was funny to get extremely high and rape me. I didn't think it was funny, but he thought it was.
I called child services on my parents a couple times, but it always failed. The last time I called child services, my father had beat me tremendously. I should have gone to the hospital it was that severe, but no one gave a shit about me, and I never went to the hospital.
I started cutting about a year after my mom had gotten out of jail. She started drinking more, which concluded with more beatings. I had heard about someone who had cut themselves, that it made them feel better. I was foolish and I decided to try it. I wanted to know how it felt, if it gave me the same effect. To me, it did, it made me feel better, and it gave me a rush. I know that sounds weird but it did. My life was crashing down on me and this is what gave me a release for everything.

Publication Date: 04-16-2012

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