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Written October 5 2023.
This story contains descriptions of blood, self-harm and physical abuse. If you feel like these might upset you, please do not read further.
I wrote this story when I wasn't feeling well mentally. I am fine now, don't worry.
This story was made by a part of me which no longer exists. I do not mean to glorify any of its contents, just to acknowledge that this is how I felt at the time.
I also hope it's not too cringy. I'm very sorry.
When I do something wrong, I cut myself. I can't help it. I begin to shake, my vision narrows and I can only think about hurting myself until the moment when I see those little pearls of deep red blood push out of my pierced skin. It soothes me. I need it. I do a lot of things wrong. I try to hide it as well as I can, but it's not easy. When I act too breezy, Mommy checks everywhere to see if I've cut myself again. I'm her precious toy, she says. No one is allowed to hurt me, not even I myself. Only she's allowed to hurt me.
Today, I dropped a glass on the floor. It shattered into a thousand little pieces. I cleaned them up as best as I could, but I still felt guilty. I only wanted to drink some orange juice. My head was feeling hot, like there was a piece of burning coal inside of it. When Mommy came home from university, she found me cleaning up a mess in the kitchen. I tried making mac and cheese, out of the box, to make her less mad at me, but I burned it and the whole kitchen smelled of burnt pasta. She came in and asked me what I had done. Stupid dog. Idiot. Mutt. She stood there and made me clean the pan again, get all the burned bits off the bottom, made me go over it with the sponge and steel wool again and again and again. By the end, I was crying.
What are you crying for, she said. It's your fault that you burned it. You shouldn't have tried to do it by yourself. You could have burned the whole house down. You know you're too clumsy to take care of yourself. Then she hit me. Two times across the face. She punched my tummy and I fell to the floor. It hurt, but I knew I deserved it. That's when I told her that I cut myself again, that I only wanted to make her happy by cooking for her, because I broke her glass when I tried to get some orange juice and that I hurt myself and I thought it would make her angry. She kicked me in the stomach.
She dragged me by my wrists into the bathroom and made me strip in front of her. I had put a band-aid on the cuts, but it was already soaked and dark red. She peeled it off. Four shallow cuts, maybe three inches long. Blood still smeared all over them. I couldn't look her in the eyes. Carefully, she cleaned them and put antiseptic on it, which burned and made me cry a bit. Then, she bandaged it up. We've been through this many times.
Afterwards, sitting on the bed, she hugged me, cradled my head in her arms. I only want you to be happy, she said. All that I do, I do only to make you happy. Are you happy, she asked me. I nodded my head and hugged her tightly. I'm happy, Mommy.