My palms rested on the edge of the sink. I didn’t realize how hard I was gripping it until I looked down and saw my knuckles had gone white. On the shelf beneath the mirror sat the razor, still wrapped in plastic, untouched. Waiting.
When the world convinces you that you have been left behind, pain becomes a reminder. Proof that you still exist. That you can still feel something.
I reached for it without blinking.
Sometimes pain tells you what no one else ever does, that you are human. That you are not just an empty, cold shell pretending to survive.
I closed the bathroom door and sat down; the room suddenly seemed very small. The razor rested in my hand, and I looked at how it shone.
One movement, I thought, and everything could disappear.
I used to do this to punish myself for never being enough. This time, I needed it for a different reason. I needed to feelanything.
I had been silent for too long. Words I couldn’t say rotted inside me, and pain screamed when I wanted to let them out.
One, two, three... I counted.
When the razor pressed against my skin, the burning pain was sharp enough to steal my breath. A sound slipped from my mouth. Warmth of blood followed, tracing past the small rose near my wrist.
I watched it, transfixed. It was real.I was real.
I counted again.
One, two, three...
My heart began to race; each beat was frantic in my ears. My skin burned and throbbed, every pulse announcing itself. For a moment, I felt awake. And then the tears came, spilling down my face as I finally opened my eyes.
They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but I said what didn’t kill me only hollowed me out.
No one ever stopped me. They saw the signs. I pushed a little harder each time, hoping one day my hand would slip, that it would go too far by accident. That it would finally end.
It never did.
Maybe it never slipped because I knew no one would be left behind to mourn me. I was never loved. Not in the way that saves you.
I knew this was wrong. I knew I had escaped these thoughts once, that I had left this place behind. But being back here, in a place that was never home, I needed proof that I wasn’t trapped. That I could still leave.
I wiped my face and stood. In the shower, I let warm water run over me, washing everything down the drain.
I guess I’m not dying today.
But I won’t speak either.
There are no words left in me that could explain what happened. No version they would believe. Silence is easier than saying out loud that I am not okay.
I neverwas.
FIVE
ZAYNE
25 years old
It was supposed to be easy.
I had five simple rules.
Rule number one. Kill or get killed.
