Recently in my Creative Writing course, we were told to write a one page paper using first person. Given the things I'd been reading recently, this is what I came up with:
WARNING: If you have problems with reading about people physical hurting themselves, DO NOT READ THIS.
It's hard to explain how it can feel good to cut. Maybe it just puts my mind on something else, away from the complication of life. It doesn't hurt. I take out my favorite razor; it's a straight edge. Light and seemingly insignificant, it cuts through my skin so easily. I have to clean it first. I can't cut without a clean razor. I lock myself in my room and pull down the old Nike shoebox from my closet. I have plenty of razors, but only one I use. Sam gave it to me long ago; he's the one that taught me to cut. He showed me how to hold the razor, taught me how important it is to keep my fingers steady and the razor perpendicular to the skin to prevent scarring. Poor precious Sam.
My razor's clean, my shirt's off, I'm ready. It's been so long since I cut. I thought I had it all together when I was with Chris. Then he had to break up with me. We talked tonight, that's why I'm doing this. I can love him better than anyone ever could, he just doesn't know it. I just have to make myself pretty. Oooohhh. One. I lied, it hurts. Two. It's worth the pain. Three. He'll know I'm pretty now. Four. Everyone will know I'm pretty now. Aaaah. Six. Can't let the blood get on my clothes; the 'rents will find out. Eight. They wouldn't understand. They don't know what it's like to be me. Fifteen. They have their own problems, anyway.
There, done. Twenty cuts. I hope that one doesn't scar. I already have enough scars. Fifty-five scars. I guess this makes fifty-six.
Now they'll see. Now they'll know that I'm P-R-E-T-T-Y. Twenty cuts to beauty, that wasn't so hard, was it?
I'm sorry, Brittany.
