Cut Her - Susie Whitmer (the first e reader TXT) 📗

 I fell quickly into a substantial haze from the cocktail of pills my mother had just given me and began to think about finally putting an end to my remarkably fucked up existence. Leave it up to chance; it made no difference to me. I was as dead as any person with a pulse possibly could be. Most of the people in my life had come and gone at their leisure, taking bits of my soul along with them. Almost completely numb, I crawled from the bedroom that I shared with my mother and little sister, to the dimly light bathroom just a few feet away. The bathroom reeked of urine and cheap floral aerosol spray. As I lay on the chilly tile floor I wanted more than anything to shed tears, scream, and call out for help. I tried, really, but had found myself in a state of temporary paralysis.

I want them all to see my pain.

I finally managed to pull myself up from the floor and check the medicine cabinet for a razor blade. No such luck. Instead I found an eyeglass repair kit. You know the kind you get for a buck down at the corner store. I instantly identified the small pointy screwdriver included in the kit and beamed as if I had just found the tool to take control of my life. As I shut the mirrored cabinet I took one last look at myself.

I am a monster.

Disgusted, I leaned back against the wall and slid down to the filthy tiles; pressing the tiny screwdriver deep into the flesh on my thigh. It felt remarkable. The contrast of the inflamed red incisions against my pale white skin was positively stunning. Finally, I appeared on the outside as I felt on the inside… damaged, injured, sick. But that sensation, that pain reminded me that I was alive.

No matter what they say, I’m human! I have the proof right here.

Once I started I couldn't stop myself. I carved and poked until I barely had any more tissue to slice into. I felt vindicated and hopeless all at once, the room spun. I spread out on the floor and began to fall into that that void of nothingness that awaited me.

I wonder if I will ever wake up, or if my mother will find my mutilated corpse here on the bathroom floor in the morning.

I knew she saw me crawling to the bathroom and asked no questions, made sure to look the other way. Sometimes I wondered if she wanted me to just get it over with so she wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore. I knew there wouldn't be much fuss if I was to overdose; at least it wouldn’t be too much of a mess to clean up, and I would get to experience some kind of bliss before I died. Floating higher, almost able to touch the ceiling, I finally felt entirely at peace with giving in and letting go of all of the pain.

This is it, I attempted to smile.

#

I awoke the next day in an immense amount of pain. Without the painkillers and sleeping pills the wounds were sheer agony, there was no beauty there. I hesitantly gazed down at my naked deformed body and winced at all of the inflamed abrasions that ran from my ankles up into my hips and thighs, then at least twenty lashes across each of my wrists and arms.

I ran some soapy warm bath water and slowly inched myself in; the pain was almost unbearable as I cleansed my wounds. I covered the cuts for weeks with several layers of clothing in the Florida heat. Over the years the scars have faded, now you probably wouldn't even notice.

Images: Cristina Otero
Publication Date: 11-20-2014

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